


Patient Zero

by ProtonBeam



Series: Patient Zero [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Ben Solo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, An Attempt at Tying A/B/O Into Modern Life, Attempt at Humor, Blink and you'll miss Kanan/Hera, Come for the floof, Crack Treated Seriously, Dr. Armitage Hux Surgeon, Dr. Poe Dameron Neurologist, Dr. Rose Tico Immunologist, F/M, In This House we Stan Gregory House, Inspired by House M.D., Jewish Ben Solo, Omega Rey (Star Wars), POV: Ben Solo, Paging Dr. Solo, Stay for the banter, The A/B/O Origin Story No One Asked For, The Author Knows Nothing About Medicine, The Author Regrets Nothing, Welcome to the omegapocalypse, What's Wrong With Rey?, because i decided, or the alphapocalypse?, zero angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 69,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtonBeam/pseuds/ProtonBeam
Summary: Dr. Benjamin Solo, Head of Diagnostic Medicine at Coruscant Memorial Teaching Hospital has his fancy tickled by a case. Rey Niima, female, 26, a month's worth of woefully underwhelming hospital charts. A series of inexplicably linked symptoms and no diagnosis in sight.That’s why her file arrives on his desk. He’s the most sought after diagnostician in the country. Prick extraordinaire. Mr. Dry-humour but only at the expense of others. He likes solving complex cases for the sheer thrill of unravelling what others can’t.And he’s finally met his match.If only she could stop saying “Alpha?”Clinical Note: How did the omegaverse start? Or shall we call it the alphaverse? Where did designations come from? It all started with one Patient Zero.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Patient Zero [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076069
Comments: 613
Kudos: 830





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhh, I'm trying something...

It’s a beautiful fucking day.  
  
Ben tosses his red bouncy ball in the air, catching it on its descent and admiring it with a content smirk before taking aim at his usual wall. It was a gift. _Fine_ he’d kept it after a dumb kid left it behind in one of the clinic rooms when he was on duty. He’d sterilized it, _of course_ , earning him a few odd looks from the nurses, but it’s his now. His ball. _Mine.  
  
_ With a flick of the wrist he sends it off. The ball bounces off the wall and he catches it with practiced precision. He tosses it back in the air swirling a few times before taking aim at the wall and repeating the act. This is nice, he thinks, watching _his_ ball bounce and return.  
  
It’s a self-gratifying activity of sorts. It’s how he thinks. How he congratulates himself for a job well done. How he annoys the shit out of his team when they’re pouring over paperwork in their adjoining scrum room.  
  
Last week he solved the Wexley case and he’d been given a reprieve from clinic duty as repayment. He’s also 100% certain two of his team doctors are fucking, which is going to make things _way_ more fun. He’s _also_ just gotten his new Jordans delivered, squeaky clean and gleaming in all their glory.   
  
Yeah, today is a kick your feet up and bounce-the-ball kind of day. Maybe he’ll leave the hospital and head to Chinatown for phở. He doesn’t want to dwell on _why_ he has to go to Chinatown for _Vietnamese_. That’ll just get him fired up about humanity’s inherent stupidity and penchant for generalizations. Just that he earned himself a bowl of goodness and a chance to marvel at his new shoes as they hit the pavement.   
  
He looks over at said new shoes, pointing up to the drop ceiling where his legs rest on his desk. Wiggling them happily, taking in the expanse of black and white leather, the pristine swoosh. He can still smell the sand cherry blossom scent from the Nike box. That’s the smell of happiness, he thinks. Well, that and the smell of a hot bowl of phở on a cool spring day.  
  
He flicks his wrist sending the ball across the room to bounce off the wall before deftly catching it again in his hand. The ball looks ridiculously small in his large palm. He should get an adult sized one. But … finders keepers, he muses before sending it off again. This day honestly couldn’t get better. He’s not even sure why he’s so happy, he _just is_.  
  
Oh who is he kidding, goading Dr. Hux until he admits his feelings for his coworker is the reason. The rest is really just icing on the cake. It’s the revelation that he’s _definitely_ sleeping with Dr. Tico that holds the promise of many _many_ satisfyingly antagonistic exchanges.   
  
Pissing off Hux should be a religion. Seeing his face turn red and eyes seethe with fire is a holy experience and he’d gladly fund the church of ‘Furi _hux’_ to the tune of every penny he owns.  
  
He’s chuckling to himself while bouncing the ball, imagining the pulpit draped in ‘blood orange’ linens. The grand decorative effigy of his fiery red hair and equally red eyes. The stained glass windows capturing his various states of fury. The narrow pews that would ensure all attendees sat up stick straight just like their saviour. The minister wearing an overstrarched robe standing so stiffly he might have a broom shoved up his ass.  
  
Ben doesn’t even really know how the technicalities of a church work. His mother only makes him go to synagogue once a year and even then he barely stays. The entirety of his Furihux fantasy based solely on what he’s seen in movies.  
  
He’s so entrenched in the fantasy he doesn’t see Dr. Holdo walk into his office. Doesn’t notice her, really, until she’s dropped a case file on his desk, crossing her arms.  
  
God he _loathes_ the woman. With her tight pencil skirts and clicky shoes and holier-than-thou because I’m-the-fucking-dean-of-medicine attitude. And to add insult to injury, the only times they see each other is when she comes to dole out clinic duty or drop off a donor’s request file. And there’s no need for either right now. He’s filled his monthly quota on both. So unless one of the other department heads ask for his help (and even then he’s more than happy to say _no_ with a shit-eating grin), he’s free to roam and consume research papers by the dozen. Maybe prank his team or take a nap.   
  
“Not interested,” he throws his words at her casually without taking his eyes off the ball.   
  
She’d just signed off on zero clinic duty for the rest of the month for him so … she can’t really do anything about his flippant tone. At least she can’t send him back into the bowels of the building to deal with a bunch of lying sacks of wasted neurons. God he hates slumming it with boring old cases of the common flu and text neck. It’s not that he _minds_ clinic duty. It’s just that the patients always expect white glove treatment when they’re coming in for fucking _free_. So, of course, when he slaps them with their diagnosis in a matter of minutes and less than a dozen exchanged words, they take offense … for some reason.   
  
Karens. All of them.  
  
“New shoes,” she delivers flatly, shifting her weight to her hip. She pushes the folder softly towards him in some kind of half-hearted attempt at capturing his attention. Ironically, she makes no mention of his soiling hospital property nor her dislike of having his feet up. That’s usually how these exchanges start before they devolve and she leaves red faced.  
  
“Still not interested.” Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Holdo. And he’s not. He’s really _not_ interested in whatever the fuck she just deposited on his desk.  
  
The positive spotlight his work on the Wexley case brought the hospital via media coverage has earned him at _least_ a month’s worth of peace. Not that it was exhausting work or anything, it was a simple case really. The kid had lied about drinking contaminated pond water. He’d contracted a kidney infection that led to sepsis _and_ kidney failure. The answer was simple once they’d gotten the kid to admit the lie. After sending Dr. Dameron to visit the location and discover wastewater drainage from a dairy farm into the pond, a proteus mirabilis infection was confirmed, antibiotics doled out, and a rich spoiled little brat got to live another day.  
  
Why the kid’s family physician couldn’t figure it out is beyond him. Probably some soft pushover physician who can’t accept the fact that _kids lie all the damn time._ Or that this is _medicine,_ not retail. The customer is, in fact, _not_ always right. But the story blew up the local news and his diagnostics department saved the day … _and_ lined the hospital’s pocketbook with an influx from donors. Holdo (and his _mother_ ) should be kissing his brand new Jordans, not dumping another file on his desk.  
  
“You don’t have a choice. Your mother picked up the file.”  
  
Aah. Great. Another one of those ‘puzzle cases’ his mother tries to keep him entertained with. The ones that usually have more to do with keeping their donors happy. Especially those with really deep pockets.  
  
“I’m not dancing around another one of your donors’ chlamydia contractions when the fucker knows full well which hooker he got it from.”  
  
“I think you’ll find this one intriguing, Solo. Started in Alaska. Patient’s being flown in now from UCSF and will arrive in…” she makes a show of checking her smart watch, completely ignoring the crude treatment of whichever donor he’d just insulted, “oh, about an hour.”  
  
 _Alaska_?  
  
“Alaska?” He’s intrigued. Not that he’ll show it. _Fuck_ no. No way he’ll let Holdo know she’s captured his interest and give her the opportunity to gloat. That’s part of the charm to their game - he never gives her the satisfaction of knowing he _enjoyed_ anything she handed him.  
  
It’s not unlikely you’ll contract the clap up in Alaska, but donors from that far are decidedly _not_ commonplace around here. If he were to venture a guess, they’ve had exactly zero since his mother’s ribbon cutting when he was still in utero. So this doesn’t _sound_ like a classic case of solving a moneybag’s medical concerns discreetly in exchange for a check.  
  
“Mmhmm,” Holdo nods at the file and walks towards his door, “I’ll have them ping you when admissions processes her arrival.”  
  
 _Her?  
  
_ He quirks an eyebrow as she walks out, letting her heels clack loudly against the tiles and the door close behind her with a dampened whoosh.   
  
Hmmm, his relationship with the Dean of Medicine has never been anything but antagonistic so her calm delivery and equally uneventful retreat is unnerving. There’s usually _at least_ one barbed exchange where he gets the opportunity to snark and belittle her.  
  
He cautiously reaches for the file, sliding it skeptically over his desk. Brow still quirked though his arch nemesis has long cleared his view. Leaning back in his chair, he opens the chart, shifting his jaw from side to side with piqued interest.  
  
Female. 26. A month's worth of intake and discharge, pathetically underwhelming notes on symptoms.   
  
Alaska Regional, St. Elias, Vancouver General, UW Medical in Seattle … it looks like she made her way down the damn coast until her last admission at … UCSF in San Fran.  
  
After each brief stay she was discharged with symptoms completely resolved. Until the last, that is. UCSF where she seems to have fallen into (or been induced into) a coma and they’d reached out to his hospital to ask for his skill set in diagnosing.  
  
His eyes skim over the symptoms. None alarming on their own or even in clusters. But as a whole they do present a titillating medical conundrum.  
  
 _Very interesting_.  
  
He fishes for his pager and pings his diagnostics team to meet in 15. Flipping through the pages, he shoves them into his printer one by one to produce 3 identical copies of her chart. He _could_ get one of the nurses at the station down the hall to do it, but that would require talking to them. And he does _not_ want to either play nice or make small talk right now. Gears are grinding as the puzzle pieces start floating in his head, consumed by his newest case.  
  
Yeah, fine. He’s accepted it as his. _Mine.  
  
_ He’ll put together the copied charts, lay his team’s reading out in their ‘scrum room’ then go take a piss and grab a coffee from the cafeteria. That’ll buy them all of 10 minutes to read through the file and formulate hypotheses.  
  
Hopefully the clowns he has at his disposal will have better suggestions than sarcoidosis (fucking Dameron).  
  
He pushes his shoulders back as he staples the copied pages, craning his neck from side to side to get in a good stretch. He is Dr. Benjamin Solo, Head of Diagnostic Medicine at the Coruscant Memorial Teaching Hospital. The most sought after diagnostician in the country and prick extraordinaire. Solver of complex cases for the sheer thrill of unravelling what others can’t. Mr. dry humour but only at the expense of others.  
  
And he’s just had his fancy tickled by a case.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


  * Coma
  * Fever
  * Profuse sweating
  * Arrhythmia
  * Plaque dermatitis + fluid expulsion



“Any guesses?” he paces in front of the whiteboard where he’s scribbled the last list of symptoms from UCSF around the patient’s name.  
  
Rey. Rey Niima. 26 years old. No birth certificate on record though UCSF dug up her foster care history, placing her as born and raised in England. Paternal and maternal medical history unknown. She’d been pushed through foster care in the UK until she ended up studying wildlife biology in Ontario, Canada on a grant.   
  
At least someone at UCSF did their due diligence. How doctors at the other hospitals didn’t bother digging into her history is beyond him. Then again, judging by the woefully underwhelming information the staff at UCSF dug up, it wasn’t worth it in the end.  
  
“Sounds like a potent flu and an allergic reaction,” Dr. Tico offers, though she looks indifferent. Like the symptoms are boring her to bits. She makes _that_ little fact known by picking non-existent dirt from under her fingernails and stifling a yawn.  
  
He’d like to ask her if she had the flu while she was letting Hux pound her into the back of the broom closet but he’ll hold that card close to his chest for another time. It’d be better to serve it to Hux, his reactions are always more genuine. Tico will wave it off and ignore him. Hux on the other hand wears his heart on his sleeve. Or more appropriately, on the colour of his pasty face.  
  
Dr. Tico is his immunologist and she’s a damn good one. Not that he’d ever tell her that. She already gets a kick from pushing his buttons. Giving her a compliment would be disastrous. He ventures that’s why she’s his favourite on the team. She can go toe to toe with him and he appreciates her shrewd mind and sarcastic comebacks. Especially when they’re flung at Dr. Hux or Dr. Dameron.  
  
“The plaque dermatitis would suggest an allergy, but can you explain the fluid expulsion?” he probes her.  
  
“Festering sores,” she waves her hand dismissively, “she’s from Alaska right?”  
  
He nods, letting her continue her hypothesis.  
  
“It’s springtime there right?”  
  
He nods again.   
  
_It’s fucking springtime across the entire northern hemisphere Tico, get to the damn point.  
  
_ “If it’s a new allergy, it’s her first presentation and her skin will be more sensitive as a result. The sores would be tougher for her body to deal with. Hence the abundance of fluids.”  
  
“But the quantity expelled doesn’t line up with the worst immune-related expressions in literature,” Hux interjects.   
  
Oh a lover’s quarrel, this is going to be delicious. Ben fights to hide the smirk threatening to bloom on his face. Biting his cheek to stifle it.  
  
“I agree with Hux. Please,” he rolls his wrist at him, imploring him to continue, “explain.”  
  
Hux clears his throat, his bright green eyes flashing at a rather irate looking Tico before meeting Ben’s again. Is he … _cowering?_ Oh this is good.   
  
Having a general surgeon on staff was a no brainer. Having one with a specialty in ICU was priceless. But what makes it all the sweeter is that it’s Dr. Hux. That Ben gets to rankle someone who steadily wields a scalpel with unwavering precision just for the sheer joy of seeing a new shade of crimson colour his face.   
  
“The reports from Anchorage on both occasions state the substance expelled is, and I quote, ‘oily in nature with no discernible odor’. Now I’m no immunologist,” he flashes Tico an apologetic look, “but most reactive fluids of an allergic nature, as you’re implying, have either a degree of pus or at least an unpleasant odor. Most certainly never oily. The fluid on the patient is, in my opinion, _not_ immune related.”  
  
“Oh I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of sores in their initial stages in _critical care_ , Hux,” Tico bites with a little more gusto than would be expected for two _colleagues_ who _aren’t_ fucking.  
  
“And you’re an expert on lesions and infections now?” Hux retorts, colour high in his cheeks and eyes taking on a tint of pink like they always do before he spews fire.  
  
Oh this is too delicious. He can’t help but let the smirk tug at the corners of his mouth for a fraction of a second while they bicker.  
  
“ _Infections_ are where immunology _begins_ you idiot. What medical school did you go to again? Dr. Seuss’ school for honorary physicians? Or did you play Operation so often Hasbro sent you a complimentary surgeon’s badge?”  
  
“Ahem, are you…” Dr. Dameron clears his throat, “not that I don’t enjoy watching you two bicker as much as Solo here, but Hux, you’re a surgeon and Tico, you’re an immunologist. Did both of you really ignore the _first_ line on her very _first_ intake chart? Wolf bite?”  
  
The room goes silent and Ben nods appreciatively. Dameron’s astute, if only he could get his head out of his ass and realize that not _everything_ has a neurological basis. Yeah, sure, Dameron’s a spectacular neurologist but … head, ass … it’s like an infinity loop. Even when there’s nothing neurological about a case, the guy can’t seem to step outside of himself and grasps at straws to connect the symptoms to his line of work.  
  
Ben’s started the countdown already until Dameron makes the neuro connection in 5…  
  
“The file states she is a caretaker at a wolf rehab centre outside of Anchorage.”  
  
4…  
  
“A month ago she was bitten by what another keeper calls the pack leader,”  
  
3…  
  
“The man, and I quote from file, said ‘the wolf bit her arm but it wasn’t in defense’,”  
  
2…  
  
“This is a wild animal…”  
  
1…  
  
“I vote rabies.”  
  
 _Bingo_.  
  
“It all fits. The arrhythmia, fever, sweating. Even the plaque dermatitis which could actually be her body attempting to expel the virus.” Dameron finishes with a smug look on his face.  
  
Ben scribbles _rabies_ onto the whiteboard, but off to the side and all eyes snap back on him. It’s a good theory, again _if_ Dameron, who deigns himself God’s gift to neurology, could get his head out of his ass. And that’s a _big_ if.  
  
 _Irritability, aggression, agitation, confusion, hallucinations, muscular spasms, paralysis, weakness, sensory sensitivities, hydrophobia, excessive salivation, fever, nausea, vomiting, insomnia.  
  
_ Ben scrawls textbook symptoms under rabies, visualizing Dameron’s hypothesis for further prodding.  
  
“You forgot hyperactivity,” Hux adds smugly.  
  
Ben underlines  agitation, “I think not.” He only _slightly_ relishes wiping the grin off the ginger’s face.  
  
He steps back to look at the list and then back at Dameron who’s frowning because he _knows_ what’s coming.  
  
God he loves this dance. The one where he comes out looking like a genius and these idiots are reminded of just _who_ they’re working for. It should be a crime, a _sin,_ to take this much pleasure from watching these so-called ‘experts in their fields’ squirm.  
  
“Fever, weakness, hallucinations, confusion, agitation,” he circles those and points them to the word rabies and Rey. “Fits quite well _and_ matches documented symptoms.”  
  
He puts an asterisk beside irritability, “I’ll give you this one Dameron. We’ll bulk it under both confusion and hallucinations.”  
  
Another asterisk beside paralysis, “if her immunity is compromised, her coma might actually be a bout of paralysis.”  
  
Another asterisk beside excessive salivation, “I’ll even give you a loose connection between her weeping lacerations and salivation. Let’s pretend, shall we?”  
  
He circles the rest and looks at his neurologist who’s _definitely_ scowling now.  
  
“Aggression? None of her documented behaviours seem aggressive. Sensory sensitivity? She’s spent plenty of time under itchy hospital sheets and bright fluorescent lights. Hydrophobia? Two hospitals documented her drinking a liter of water when she’d wake up after a long period of rest. Which brings me to insomnia … she sleeps quite well. 12 hours after a bout of hallucinations at a time. Shall I go on?”  
  
“Ok, ok, you made your point. But what if it’s rabies _plus_ another condition? One that might suppress some of the other missing symptoms?”  
  
Ben points the marker at Dr. Dameron nodding, “I _like_ complex and I _like_ your thinking.”  
  
His pager beeps softly in his pocket and he fishes it out praying it’s exactly what he’s hoping for.   
  
It is.   
  
He looks back at Dameron, “and you’ll get to test your theories right now. The patient’s just been processed and wheeled into a private ICU on the 4th floor. Dameron, Hux, I want a full blood panel, saliva, sore expulsion and serum samples, cross-reference childhood vaccinations and any additional non-invasive tests you deem necessary to prove your hypotheses at this time.”  
  
Dr. Tico’s mouth drops in outrage. She absolutely hates it when he doesn’t give her first dibs and he quite frankly enjoys rankling her for that.  
  
“Tico, you’re with me. I think immunology plays a role so I want to run through more with you while our good neighbourhood nurses here run some basic tests.”  
  
God why is he so good at making sure they all look like they hate their lives? Why does he _enjoy_ it so much?  
  
Dameron and Hux nod, letting themselves out.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


“You know, you don’t need someone of Vietnamese heritage with you to have Vietnamese _food._ I was born and raised here for fucks sake,” Dr. Tico admonishes as she takes a bite out of her bánh mì. Thick chunks of the baguette’s crust fall onto her plate while she glares daggers at him.  
  
Ben couldn’t care less. Mixing hoisin sauce and sriracha expertly into his bowl and wafting the delicious scent of phở broth. He swears there’s something in this stuff that’s the equivalent of crack, but refuses to accept that it’s just MSG. Also, he’s going to order a bánh mì to go for later because Tico’s looks amazing. Also, he’s getting a vietnamese iced coffee. That stuff is potent and the condensed milk is just … fucking chef’s kiss.  
  
“This is a work related lunch, Tico. Don’t flatter yourself,” he muses while he maneuvers rice noodles, a slice of rare beef, a fresh basil leaf and a perfect scoop of broth into his spoon for consumption. He’s a meticulous man and every bite will have the perfect balance of everything that makes this soup so addicting.  
  
“Sure, _sure_ … that’s why you have your surgeon running diagnostic tests instead of your _immunologist_. He just _knows_ what to look for on those labs huh?”  
  
“Rose, we both know Hux needs to do footwork occasionally to keep him sharp. Otherwise he’d be useless until he’s needed to slice a patient open.”  
  
She rolls her eyes while masticating a huge bite of sandwich. “That’s exactly the visual I need while eating. _So_ … first name, huh?” she raises an eyebrow, placing her half eaten sandwich on the plate, “you’re really laying it on thick right now Solo. What do you want?”  
  
He scoffs and in the process inhales a bit of the spicy broth setting him off into a sputtering cough. It’s the sriracha. Too much this time. It’s not her words. Just a shitty gag reflex and too much sriracha.  
  
“I’m not ruling out your allergic reaction theory,” he offers tightly. Mostly because his epiglottis is on _fire._ He takes a big gulp of water and motions the waiter over to place a to-go order for 2 iced coffees and a bánh mì. “In fact, I think there’s a lot to it. I just didn’t want to show favouritism. You know how Dameron gets.”  
  
Another big swig of water while she watches him, chewing on another massive bite of sandwich.   
  
“But what really caught my interest in the case wasn’t the symptoms per se. Well, it was but ...” he starts again while building yet another perfect scoop full of phở, “tell me something, Tico. Did you not find anything odd about the _placement_ of the sores?”  
  
He shovels in two spoonfuls as he watches her gears grind.  
  
“They _are_ odd,” she concedes, “typically allergic dermatitis shows up on point of contact. Hands, feet. Sometimes it travels around. Maybe elbows, eyelids. Hers are definitely … odd.”  
  
“Exactly,” he says bright eyed, finishing off the last of his noodles, “the neck? Specifically the pulse points? Unless she came in contact with the substance in her sleep that’s … not likely to be allergic. Neither is the big one on her trapezius.”  
  
The server brings out a styrofoam container with his sandwich and 2 to-go cups with their iced coffees. Ben tips the bowl back to drink the rest of his broth. He knows it’s boorish and there’s a perfectly good spoon to scoop up the rest of it. But this shit is fantastic and turns him into a caveman so … YOLO.  
  
“You think it’s her occipital lymph nodes?” Rose asks, reaching for her iced coffee and lightly chewing on the straw before taking a sip.  
  
“What do you think?” He questions pushing the bowl aside and reaching for his wallet.  
  
He’s an asshole boss. An asshole doctor. An asshole _period_. But he isn’t _not_ a gentleman. He scoops out a 20 and drops it onto the bill tray. _Another_ reason Vietnamese is always a good idea. It’s a fucking _steal_ for the explosion of flavour it delivers.  
  
“Well, you can ask Hux to check her scalp for lesions or scales. Could either rule out or confirm a scalp infection. But I don’t think that fits all the symptoms.”  
  
Ben nods in agreement.  
  
“Rubella?”  
  
“No,” he shakes his head, “no congestion or recorded joint pains. Her sores are also much more severe than rubella ones. And more concentrated. Besides, she’s not an infant.”  
  
“Hmmm,” she taps her chin, “mono?”  
  
“It fits. The fatigue, the fever. But her documented appetite is as healthy as her thirst after she sleeps. I can ask Dameron to check her tonsils for swelling.”  
  
“Could be a worthy co-diagnosis. Mono and rabies. Poor thing. But … what about lymphoma?”  
  
“I considered it,” he says taking a sip of his coffee. God _fucking_ damn it, how is this so _good?  
  
_ “We’d need a scan to confirm but I don’t know if Holdo is willing to push her to the front of the line just yet.”  
  
Dr. Tico scoffs, “you mean she wouldn’t give us first dibs on the new MRI _we_ basically got them with that Wexley case?”  
  
He can’t help but smile. She’s so attuned to him it’s uncanny. He’s loathed to admit that if she ever applied for his job at a different hospital, he’d end up giving her a glowing recommendation, though he’s not willing to _actually_ part with her. She’s an excellent doctor and an excellent colleague and an excellent human.  
  
“No,” he chuckles, “not unless we can prove it’s imperative in securing a diagnosis.”  
  
“Well judging by your interest in this conversation, I don’t think this is what you _really_ wanted to talk about. So, what is it Solo? What do you want to know?”  
  
Is he _that_ transparent? If so he’s gonna need a new poker face. That or Dr. Ackbar in oncology and his cronies are terrible poker players. The fact that Tico is just that good refuses to actualize as a reason.  
  
“Hux…” he starts, wondering just _how_ he’s going to probe the details of their congress without giving away that he knows.   
  
“What about him?”  
  
“He, uh … you think he’s a good guy, right?”  
  
She laughs. “I can tell you he’s not into men, Solo. Sorry to burst your bubble,”  
  
 _The fuck?  
  
_ How did she do that? He’s supposed to recon details of their relationship and somehow he’s ended up under the microscope? _With_ a jab at his sexual preference?   
  
Not that he cares per se. But Tico’s seen him with a date once or twice in the years they’ve worked together. Hux is neither female _nor_ his type.  
  
Their pagers go off in unison. Shrieking obnoxiously in shrill tones to remind them they were on the clock.  
  
Together they reach for their jacket pockets. Together they pull them out in perfect sync.  
  
It’s from Dr. Hux.  
  
 _Patient awake. Bit Storm in ICU.  
  
_ Well, Dameron’s bound to be happy. Aggression is back on the ‘maybe rabies’ list.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: We were walking through a nursery and walked through a row of sand cherry shrubs. The scent reminded us so much of Nike shoes we bought one. And named her Nike. She hangs out in my backyard and gets accosted by Japanese beetles which I dutifully hand pick off her leaves and drown in a tin of soapy water because I’m a sadist like that.
> 
> _________
> 
> What do these mean?
> 
> [Phở](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pho)   
>  [Sepsis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sepsis)   
>  [Proteus Mirabilis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proteus_mirabilis)   
>  [Chlamydia/Clap](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chlamydia)   
>  [Sarcoidosis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarcoidosis)   
>  [Bánh Mì](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B%C3%A1nh_m%C3%AC)   
>  [Epiglottis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epiglottis)   
>  [Occipital Lymph Node](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occipital_lymph_nodes)   
>  [Rubella](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubella)   
>  [Mono](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infectious_mononucleosis)   
>  [Lymphoma](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lymphoma)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He turns to her then, for the very first time, to set his gaze on the woman that’s set his team into a tailspin._
> 
> _And dammit she’s pretty. Really pretty. 0.01% kind of pretty._
> 
> _Beautiful, actually. An unconventional type of beautiful that manages to make a man like him stare for longer than necessary. The type that shines even though she’s been in a hospital bed for the better part of a week. The type that doesn’t need blowouts and false lashes. That has him mesmerized even though her face is as greasy as her hair. The effortless type that just is._
> 
> _It rankles him a little. Seeing this woman who’s just torched his entire staff in the matter of moments. And at the same time feeling inexplicably attracted to her._
> 
> _He stands there watching her breathe evenly. Watching her eyes flutter in sleep as the monitor beeps softly in time with her heartbeat. Watches as his brain wars with itself between admitting she’s beautiful and wanting to shake her awake to scream at her._

The phone rings twice before it connects to heavy breathing. Hearing Hux flustered gives him a bit of FOMO. He _wishes_ he was there to witness what sounds like a panic attack in all its glory. It’s fucking magnificent. So divine he fights to hold back the grin threatening to split his face open.  
  
“Explain,” he orders flatly as he and Tico walk double time against the chilly spring air. Her gait reminiscent of those awkward looking speedwalkers he sees early mornings by his house. Yeah, those ones. Complete with the sweatbands, ridiculous hip sway and all. Probably to keep up with his massive strides, but he’s not going to slow down on her account. She’s a big girl, she can catch up or figure it out.  
  
“Well, she bit Storm while Dameron and I were collecting samples.”  
  
“Storm? What storm?” Ben asks, confused. Did an X-Men character materialize in their universe? Is it some kind of weird food they’re serving patients now? Is there a nurse named Storm? That’s both the most likely explanation and simultaneously a stupid name to give a child. He’d like to travel back in time to slap the doctor that allowed _that_ to be written on a birth certificate. If, in fact, that’s the case.  
  
“Storm? Finn Storm?” Tico chimes in from behind, huffing with effort, clearly eavesdropping on the conversation. Those words don’t even mean anything. They just confirm they’re definitely not discussing Marvel characters. Is that some kind of new soup? Like shark fin but served during inclement weather?  
  
“ICU nurse Finn?”   
  
_Drawing an absolute blank. A person, then.  
  
_ “You’re really that oblivious aren’t you?” She rolls her eyes and picks up her pace to come up beside him. If he’s picked up his tempo to outpace her again on purpose, she doesn’t need to know.  
  
“Aah, yeah, Finn. She bit Finn,” Hux agrees on the line, clearly attuned to Tico’s voice, “one minute she’s out cold while we’re swabbing her lacerations, the next her eyes pop open.”  
  
There’s silence on the line as city traffic whizzes by. Taxis honking and old ladies with those obnoxious rolling grocery bags walking at snail's pace, chattering idly. What he really wants is for Hux to get to the damn point instead of dawdling.   
  
“Uh, well … remember how the chart said when she’s having hallucinations she repeats one word?”  
  
“Yes,” Ben hisses. In other words, wrap this the fuck up.  
  
“Well, she looked at me first. I was swabbing while Storm and Dameron were organizing vials on the other side you see … then she uh, she said …” at this point Dameron in the background yelps something, “fine, _asked_ , she _asked_ the word alpha.” His voice sounds further away, like he’s turned from the mic, “I really don’t see how inflection impacts the exchange Dameron,” then back to crystal clear, “anyway she then umm, am I on speaker?”  
  
“No,” he rolls his eyes as the hospital comes into view, “get to the point, Hux.”  
  
A fucking surgeon. _A fucking surgeon._ He’s on the phone with a surgeon who can’t string together a sentence to save his life or get to the fucking point.   
  
In med school they were viewed as heroes. Gods among their ranks. The equivalent of the highschool quarterback. Women fawned at their feet, pussy falling out of their pockets like rich kids dropped coins at the arcade. Unable to contain the cornucopia they carried around. Smirking because they could get anything they wanted, the world their oyster. Surgeons. _This_ is a surgeon? This inarticulate...  
  
“Right. Well, she uh … she then ... kissed me?” he squeaks, sounding uncomfortable until suddenly he begins rushing through his words like his amphetamines magically kicked in, “I don’t even know how it happened. One minute she was laying in bed the next she just lunged. The monitor didn’t even give a sign of her waking up. It’s just nice and steady then all of a sudden it’s off the charts and her eyes are open and she says that fucking word … _asks fine asks_ ... what was she even doing? Algebra? Physics? And then she just lunges. God, it was so bloody weird!”  
  
He can hear Dameron’s voice blurt out something or other but the idiot is too far away to understand.  
  
“Yeah okay okay _okay_. It’s a sign of aggression, I get it, now can I please finish telling him before he fucks us both up the ass?” The delivery isn’t for him, but Hux is clearly as fed up with Dameron’s interruptions as he is. And they’re just about at the door so if he doesn’t get the rest out by the time they reach the elevators, Ben’s making Dameron extract a fecal sample sans gloves.  
  
“Anyway, sorry Solo,” Hux begins again clearing his throat, this time his voice is even, “she pulled off pretty quickly then proceeded to do the same to Storm … uh, sorry the nurse ... _Finn_ … who swatted her away then she bit his hand. We sedated her. Gave her 1.1mg of lorazepam so she’ll be out for a bit. We might need to keep her on a steady drip though if this repeats. I’m collecting the samples that got thrown around in the scuffle now to bring them to the lab. Dameron’s patching up Finn.”  
  
Ben thinks things just got interesting.  
  
He also thinks Hux is shitting his pants over the fact that the patient kissed him and Tico’ll be pissed. Oh the _opportunity_.  
  
“Right. Good chat. We’ll be right there.”  
  
He hangs up the phone and turns to Tico, “Head up to ICU and help Hux with the samples. I’m going to drop this off in my office and join you shortly.”

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


He takes the stairs, letting Tico grab the elevator. He wants to give her time. Let Hux well and truly fuck himself so she can get worked up good. It’s best to witness the lover’s quarrel mid heat rather than stopping it in its early tracks. It’s more interesting that way. If he shows up too early he’ll act like a bucket of water on a barely established fire. If he shows up too late they’ll have fizzled.  
  
There’s a lot of strategy involved in getting people riled up. In exposing their soft underbellies then taking the shot. Ben prides himself in being an expert marksman so...  
  
He also strolls through the halls slowly instead of at his usual brisk pace. Taking long, luxurious sips of his iced coffee and purposely squeaking his soles against the floors just to annoy the shit out of anyone within earshot.   
  
He doesn’t give a damn, really, about the patient’s aggression. Patients are bodies. Bodies are medical puzzles. This puzzle just gave him another clue. So he doesn’t _care_ that one person bit another. Or that one person kissed another. He cares that a previously unrecorded symptom has surfaced.  
  
Well, he _does_ care but not nearly as much as he probably should. Besides, what bothers him right now is this new symptom and how Dameron’s going to perceive it. He’ll double down on his original theory and once he gets his blinders on … well.  
  
Rabies is a good theory. A decent starting point. But the puzzle pieces aren’t fitting that neatly. It hadn’t felt right in the scrum room earlier. It doesn’t feel right now, even with the addition of a _very_ textbook symptom.  
  
When he’s given the lovers ample time to let down their guard, after he’s made _one_ very important phone call, he finally makes his way to ICU on 4th. It’s not his favourite place, but it’s quiet. Most patients here are usually comatose and unable to make demands, scream, or in general use their voices. The best type of medicine happens here, he thinks.  
  
Sometimes he comes up to take a nap or watch a daytime basketball game with one of the coma patients who’s been in a persistent vegetative state for as long as Ben can remember. It’s a good place to hide but he uses it sparingly. Never tells anyone about it and makes damn sure that when he _does_ slink into the room it’s unobserved. The wrath he’d receive for such an unorthodox hideout would be … he shudders thinking of his mother’s words.  
  
Rounding the corner towards the rooms he walks past the staff lounge. Normally he doesn’t bother glancing in. They’re places where staff make idle chit chat and plans. Exchange numbers and extend dinner invitations. Where human relationships bloom between people in the same line of work. Not his scene whatsoever. Sometimes if he peeks in he’ll see one physician or another napping on the sofa. Also not uncommon and he doesn’t fault them.  
  
But _this time,_ he catches something that makes his eyes bug out of his head. There’s Dameron sitting on the sofa next to a handsome male nurse that he recognizes. Oooh, _that’s Finn_.   
  
Dameron’s arm is slung across the nurse’s shoulder holding a bandaged hand and pressing it to his lips. Their conversation held in hushed tones but very clearly one between people who share intimacies, not work colleagues.   
  
_Oh this is too good and worrying all at once.  
  
_ He turns away, filing the information for later perusal and storms towards the room his patient is in, a brooding cloud beginning to form over his head.  
  
God, maybe he really _is_ that oblivious but everyone around this hospital is acting like a colony of cats in heat. Is literally _everyone_ having relations with _someone_ at this place? Fuck. First Tico and Hux, now Dameron and Finn. And that’s just those he directly associates with. It doesn’t even include the cesspool in ER. Or the surprisingly frequent tales of quickies shared in oncology.  
  
Sometimes he fancies this place is more a shitty episode of General Hospital than an actual medical institution. All he ever overhears is who’s dating who, who’s having sexual congress with who (ok fine - who’s _fucking_ who). Does anyone actually _work_ here?   
  
It bothers him. Not because he’s missing out on this infinitely disgusting cesspool of pending STIs. If he has an itch to scratch he’s perfectly content taking care of it himself. If he’s really needy there’s apps for that, though he’ll never have the same girl twice because, well, wouldn’t it be awkward if they developed feelings?   
  
It’s not even that he doesn’t _want_ a relationship. Most women (ok practically 99.99% of the female population) just don’t strike his fancy. Of those rare ones who do, he finds himself woefully underwhelming which sends them running for the hills.   
  
He’s a little (ok a lot) rough around the edges. Sarcasm should have been his middle (if not given) name. He survives off dry humour, snide jabs, and a very specifically tailored rotation of takeout restaurants. His joys in life include problem solving, problem solving, and problem solving. Sometimes he plays the piano, once a month he joins the oncologists for a poker tourney he never wins. He likes to hand write birthday and thank you cards (something he expressly only does for his mother because ... he doesn’t have friends). He likes to go to the gym and watch basketball, play sudoku on genius and get demolished by his mother at scrabble. He likes his life quiet, organized and mentally stimulating.  
  
That makes him, according to these women, a poor mate. They want things like _attention,_ and _affection._ Things he _has_ the ability to give but needs to be worked into. Provided the opportunity to come out of his shell. And to add insult to injury, they’re woefully underwhelming themselves. Blinking at him like he’s sprouted a second head when he makes an obscure movie reference or, God forbid, uses _very controlled_ sarcasm.   
  
If 99.99% of the female population don’t strike him physically, 100% don’t strike him emotionally. So there’s that.  
  
But no. It’s none of those things that bug him right now. What bothers him most is that the topic of who’s riding whose dick should have no place in an institution whose sole purpose is the care of human life. It’s the equivalent of having the line chef snot all over the kitchen you’re ordering from in the middle of a shift. Utterly disgusting. Quite frankly, it’s a fucking miracle they haven’t experienced some kind of viral outbreak with the way staff likes to swap bodily fluids.  
  
As if to drive the point home, the minute he walks through the open door, there’s Tico and Hux in the middle of what looks to be a heated argument.   
  
He’s not in the mood for this anymore. He’d worked his entire arrival around this _very_ moment and now that he’s here, it’s lost its lustre. Somehow his reflections have dampened his spirits and he’s feeling more than a bit irate.  
  
“Did you get the samples to the lab?” he interrupts, completely disinterested in prying into the argument they were having. Hux’s face is pained while Tico’s is furious just shy of blowing a gasket. If he were to venture a guess, it’s probably about Hux making out with their patient. The idiot could have glossed over it, or just flat out denied it, but his name is Hux so a little ambiguity was apparently not an option.   
  
He wishes he could find it in him to take pleasure in this scene. Make some kind of sly remark about the best way to erase a past lover is to swap an exaggerated amount of saliva in replacement. Or underhandedly congratulating Dr. Hux on _finally_ getting a girlfriend just to see Tico snarl.   
  
He sighs dejectedly. It’s something he’d normally take great joy in but finds himself … lacking.  
  
“No,” the ginger grates, his face the colour of a good sangria.  
  
“Well, take Tico and do it already. And grab Dameron. We’re meeting in 20 to go over these developments.”  
  
While the storm clouds of their argument still linger over their heads, they silently collect the vials and swabs. Filing out and pulling the negative energy with them to leave him blessedly alone with this problematic patient he’s found himself handling.  
  
He turns to her then, for the very first time, to set his gaze on the woman that’s set his team into a tailspin.   
  
And dammit she’s pretty. _Really_ pretty. 0.01% kind of pretty.   
  
Beautiful, actually. An unconventional type of beautiful that manages to make a man like him stare for longer than necessary. The type that shines even though she’s been in a hospital bed for the better part of a week. The type that doesn’t need blowouts and false lashes. That has him mesmerized even though her face is as greasy as her hair. The effortless type that just _is.  
  
_ It rankles him a little. Seeing this woman who’s just torched his entire staff in the matter of moments. And at the same time feeling inexplicably attracted to her.  
  
He stands there watching her breathe evenly. Watching her eyes flutter in sleep as the monitor beeps softly in time with her heartbeat. Watches as his brain wars with itself between admitting she’s beautiful and wanting to shake her awake to scream at her.  
  
 _Fuck this.  
  
_ He storms out of her room brooding. The beginnings of a plan forming with each step. It won’t solve his problems, nor will it get him a diagnosis in the immediate future. But it’s a start. It’s a panning out to see the forest from the trees. An overview of the puzzle pieces he’s got to work with, and hopefully, by this time tomorrow, they’ll be closer to a diagnosis.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


When he walks into their scrum room an hour later they’re in the midst of another argument.   
  
Dameron insisting her aggression towards his lover was a direct presentation of rabies. Hux rebutting he’s too focused on the one symptom to see it doesn’t fit with the remainder. Tico is throwing Hux the _dirtiest_ look Ben’s seen to date.  
  
If he were in a better mood, he’d prod them about their relationship. Make a joke about Hux finally getting to taste the fruits of passion or something. Maybe ask Dameron if he’s willing to champion Finn’s honour in battle against their gremlin of a patient.   
  
Alas, he’s not. So he supposes now is a good a time as any to throw a wrench in and remind them that the _only_ person around here that gets to make _anyone_ miserable is him.   
  
“Tico? Hux? Pack your bags. You’re going to Alaska.”  
  
And _that_ shuts them up faster than a 2 minute hit of sevoflurane.  
  
“ _What?”_ Tico’s fists connect with the shiny white table, earning her a pointed look.  
  
 _I thought you wanted to be more hands on Tico?  
  
_ He knows it’s a reaction stemming from the culmination of the afternoon’s events. Knows it’s because he’s irked her enough to begin with, then found out another woman was all over her property, and now has to listen to a theory that she knows is false. He knows _that’s_ why she’s smashed her fists. But understanding would be showing weakness, and he can’t do that with them. _Any_ of them.  
  
“Talked to Holdo. You’re on the next flight out in 2 hours.”  
  
Hux, of course, turns a sour shade of raspberry before stuttering a half-hearted, “Come again?”  
  
 _Like you’re not excited to join the mile high club and get a night with your girl. What could possibly be more romantic than Alaska in spring?  
  
_ But he won’t say that. Not yet. The right time will come and when it does, it will be glorious. For now he’ll feign ignorance.   
  
“We need more information,” he sighs, his sense of ownership and control returning with each word that brings him a comfortable sense of peace, “the medical records are, as you know, pitiful. We can work with the symptoms as they present but … you know how this dance goes. The best diagnosis comes from tracing the symptoms back to the root. I need you to go see her house. Her place of work. Track down any places she frequents. Talk to locals and friends. Check her fridge. You know the drill.”  
  
They do. This is part of literally any and all cases they’ve ever worked on. He can’t trust the reports. Can’t trust the patient's version of events. People naturally gloss over the less savoury facts about their lives. Like asking a smoker how many cigarettes they smoke a day. Or an alcoholic how many drinks they have daily. Ben’s rule of thumb is always multiply it by 2. 4 if they seem sketchy. 10 if he picks up the scent of the substance in question.  
  
The only difference with this particular case is the distance. Usually they hop into their cars and drive what? An hour out of the city? They’ve occasionally had to fly out for patients who’ve been shipped in but those cases were rare. Usually national cases were fixed by a phone consult with the attending physician where Ben would berate their medical skills and give them their diagnosis in under 30 minutes.  
  
“But we’ll get the test results back tomorrow,” Dameron, of course, has to throw in his 10 cents with a petulant whine.  
  
“And they’ll be back by then,” he silences him with a look before turning back to Tico and Hux, “Like I said, flight leaves in 2 hours. Your return flight will be tomorrow at 11:00 AM so I suggest you make good use of your time.”  
  
“But…” Tico begins thoughtfully. He can see in her face she’s already accepted it. In fact, she looks oddly content.  
  
“We’ve booked you a room at the Sheraton, if that’s your next question. We’ve also booked you two rental cars so you can cover ground faster.”  
  
Dr. Tico simply nods. Then shrugs before shucking off her coat. She rolls it into a bundle and drops it into one of the chairs at the table indiscriminately while reaching for her purse.  
  
“What?” Dameron fumes, “we’re _not_ going to go over what happened in there? That was a clear sign of aggression. That’s _fucking_ rabies!”  
  
“ _You_ and _I_ will. _They_ ,” Ben throws his thumb back at Hux and Tico, “have to get going.”  
  
The two in question have the good graces to let themselves out quietly, ignoring Dameron’s little tantrum and knowing full well Ben would have it sorted out in minutes. Probably giddy at the prospect of _being paid_ to go at it like rabbits. Little do they know the flight is a little over 5 hours each way.  
  
Ben isn’t an idiot. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he’d so indifferently pitched the expense to Holdo.   
  
Of course she’d huffed and puffed and called him absurd. Proceeded to parade her laundry list of complaints and infractions on his ‘list’. The one he’s never actually seen but she _insists_ is miles long. The one she dangles over his head like he has a single fuck to give.   
  
He’d let her wind herself, of course. Sitting across from her grand mahogany desk and picking his nails, bopping his head along to her rhythmic bleating. When she’d finally wrung herself out he kindly reminded her of the extra income his department had brought in, that this case was specifically _chosen_ by his mother (who is Holdo to deny their CEO and founder), and that it was between the trip or pushing his patient to the front of the MRI line.  
  
Was it a low blow? Of course. But Holdo has no qualms about dropping his mother’s name when it’s convenient for her. When she wants to use the threat like a cattle prod to herd him in whatever direction she fancies. So, he’ll use her tactic against her.  
  
 _Tit for tat lady.  
  
_ “You’re not serious, are you Solo?” Dameron’s eyes are furious. It’s a little unnerving that a neurologist doesn’t realize just how emotional he’s being. Sure, the study eventually branches into the medical nuts and bolts of the brain, a neverending barrage of substances and their effects, but at its very core it’s about behaviour. At the very core there’s _psychology_. A core Dameron has _obviously_ pulled away from in favour of sticking his head up his own ass because … infinity loop.  
  
“Dead,” Ben returns, throwing himself back into the sofa and making a show of exhaling loudly. He _wants_ to irritate Dameron. Because irritating his staff is how he finds balance. He can make Dameron snap so he can then confront him about the simple fact that he’s blowing things _way_ out of proportion. All because his _boyfriend_ got bitten. And based on the quick chat he had with another ICU nurse, it had barely broken skin. Just the slightest bit of blood. No need for stitches. Even _she_ brushed it off as standard fare.   
  
He’d also talked to Finn after tracking him down, of course. He’s indifferent but not a monster. Finn, too, assured him he was just fine.  
  
The amount of times nurses get injured on the job is mind blowing. Ben doesn’t begrudge them when he overhears complaints about how difficult their line of work is. In fact, he agrees. They’re more frontline than some of the prissy, manicured doctors that tail them. Like Dameron for example.  
  
“You can’t just … a nurse was assaul … what are you … she _bit_ someone!” He sputters indignantly.   
  
Ben has to fight to hide his smirk. By all means Dameron, continue digging your own grave. This will end marvellously for you.  
  
“Why … are you _laughing_?” he throws his hands over his head, fully in the throes of his tantrum now.  
  
It sometimes strikes Ben when he least expects it. This complete and utter awareness that he’s the caretaker of a bunch of petulant children. That they’re in his charge and it’s his _duty_ to teach them to be responsible adults (nay, _doctors_ ).   
  
“Are you done?” he throws casually, leaning his head against the back of the sofa. The tiles of the drop ceiling infinitely more interesting than his neurologist’s outburst.  
  
“Done what?” he shrieks like a banshee.  
  
“Tantruming.”  
  
“I’m not tantruming!”  
  
“Dameron, we’ve worked together the longest. Please. Don’t bullshit. You’re unhinged right now because our patient bit your _boyfriend_.”  
  
Aaaaand the penny drops. Ben briefly considers whether he should start a countdown to Dameron’s ego self-imploding but thinks better of it.   
  
While Dameron’s jaw flaps open and shut, he waves his hand at him. It doesn’t matter, it says. “You know as well as I that injuries _can_ and _do_ happen in our profession. Nurses are no exceptions. Finn is a brave soul who _knows_ the risks of the profession, but he did his job today. You need to get your head back in the game.”  
  
 _Placation._ Necessary medicine delivered smoothly and with a hint of honey so it can go down easy.  
  
“I’m not even gonn … how did you even … what are you … she drew _blood!”_   
  
“And you bandaged him up quite nicely,” Ben deadpans, watching Dameron’s expression relax a fraction, “and I have eyes, Poe.”  
  
Dameron begins to pace, hands firmly planted at his hips like some kind of tactical general considering a battle plan. Eyes flicking from the open door to the charts strewn across the table to the whiteboard still full of scribbles. He maintains this erratic behaviour for some moments before his hands land on the back of a chair and pull.  
  
It’s a skeptical movement. Complete with furrowed brows and what appears to be a bitten cheek. But it’s acceptance and Ben can work with that.  
  
Depositing himself into the chair, Dameron wipes his hand across his face roughly then leans his elbows on the table.  
  
“First name, huh? What do you want Solo?”  
  
Is he that predictable?  
  
Meh. He mentally shrugs it off and braces himself for his favourite type of banter with Dameron.  
  
“I had a call with Alaska Regional. They gave her 1,100 IU of RIG when they treated her wound. They also confirmed she was vaccinated. Called the employer after she was released. The employer confirmed all staff get the standard 3 shots during probation as well as yearly testing. It’s not rabies.”  
  
“Why wasn’t it in the charts?” Dameron’s brows rise quizzically.  
  
“I asked them the same thing. Their answer was garbage so I can only infer their staff is comprised of morons.”  
  
“There’s always the possibility of gaps in vaccine coverage,” Dameron starts again, “I still think it’s rabies. Or at least that rabies plays a role. But you have a look on your face. So go on, spill.”  
  
Ben smirks knowingly. This is his favourite game.  
  
“You’re a smug fuck, you know that?” Dameron chuckles, “you should try a different look sometime. Might help your approval ratings with the ladies.”  
  
“I thought about getting highlights once,” Ben muses, “smugness is easier to maintain.”  
  
Dameron shakes his head laughing. Tension seeming to roll off him in waves.  
  
“So what are you thinking? I know you’re plotting.”  
  
“What do you think about mono?” Ben breaks into a full blown grin.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


It only took 2 hours for him and Dameron to go through a plethora of neurological options. Sarcoidosis, of course, reared its head but the symptoms just didn’t fit. They finally settled on the possibility of Wolff-Parkinson-White just to give Dameron something to sink his teeth (and nervous energy) into.   
  
He’d told Dameron to go home. Rest up. Research from there. If Finn was off shift he could even spend the evening kissing his booboos (Dameron did _not_ like that one).   
  
To be completely honest, he just needed to be rid of him, too. Everyone needed a reset and, as much as he enjoys screwing with them, they were all a just little too close to the edge to enjoy fucking with anymore. Besides, the samples were at the lab so there was no further need to theorize. Results wouldn’t return until tomorrow afternoon … what he _really_ needs is a good nap until his shift is up and he can go home.  
  
It’s a formality. He could just go home. But he’s got _one more thing_ he’d like to accomplish before he can hit the hay.  
  
That’s what he tells himself as he slips into his patient’s room and quietly closes the door behind him. What he tells himself as he turns off the lorazepam drip.  
  
She’s beautiful like this. Angelic. He’d never tell her, of course. As far as he’s concerned she’s a feral gremlin when she’s awake. But that doesn’t stop him from looking. Doesn’t stop him from appreciating her genetic build. The cluster of features that he quite frankly appreciates.  
  
He hasn’t seen her eyes, but based on her golden skin tone and her dusting of freckles he’s assuming they’re brown. _Maybe_ hazel or green but mathematical probability skews away from that possibility, so most likely just brown. They’re probably big, doe-eyed.   
  
Her mouth has a bit of a severe turn. She must frown a lot. Or at the very least not smile much. Which is too bad, he thinks she might have a nice smile. Thinks it might have something to do with the curve of her brows and her little button nose. They fit someone who has a nice smile.  
  
Not like his own schnoz or weirdly short bushy brows or luggage handle lips. Unlike him, she’s also got perfectly proportioned ears. Yeah, they’re quite opposite, aren’t they?  
  
Her frame looks to be borderline wiry. An opinion based solely on how thin and fragile her forearms that peek out from the oversized hospital gown look and the little he can see of her protruding collarbones. He’s not sure if it has anything to do with being on a steady diet of hospital food, or if her lifestyle as a wolf rehab … person … who lives in _fucking Alaska_ has anything to do with it.   
  
_How much does broccoli cost up there anyway?  
  
_ She _could_ also just be really fit. He’s pretty sure he’s seen a NatGeo special on wolves. They have large territories so she must have good stamina and muscle mass in order to keep up with them. Study them or whatever she does.   
  
Or maybe she just spends time at the gym. They have those in Anchorage, right? He’s being dense imagining it as a settlement of log cabins and a single corner store run by a guy wearing a racoon-tailed hat. He should Google that.  
  
Why is he still staring?  
  
Shaking his head he checks to make sure the drip is off. She’ll wake up soon. Then he can make her feel like the grade A piece of shit she is for biting hospital staff.  
  
Now that his memory’s been jogged, now that he knows exactly _who_ Storm is, he remembers working with him a few times. Salt of the earth kinda guy. Very professional. Doesn’t take his shit, surprisingly, which he appreciates. It grates him that this British-studied-in-Canada-Alaskan wolf-lady dared assault one of the good ones.  
  
Yeah, he down played it for Dameron. Yeah, it’s not a big deal and happens with enough frequency to not warrant a huge upheaval. But he’ll be damned if any patient of his is going to disrespect his mother’s hospital or the good people working in it.  
  
He’s an asshole, not a monster.  
  
So this is a good a time as any to sit back, take a nap, and wait for his pretty little patient to wake up so he can see how much he can make her scowl.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know I know. What's with the slow burn on a 7 chapter fic?! I promise they'll actually meet and talk next chapter. 
> 
> _______
> 
> What on earth is this stuff?  
> [Sevoflurane (type of GA)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sevoflurane)  
> [Lorazepam (aka Ativan)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorazepam)  
> [RIG (Rabies Immunoglobin)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabies_immunoglobulin)  
> [Wolff-Parkinson-White](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolff%E2%80%93Parkinson%E2%80%93White_syndrome)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So … wolf society huh?” He drawls, uncharacteristically anxious to keep the flow of conversation going. Needing to talk to her more for some strange reason._
> 
> _“Like I said, their society and pack dynamics are intriguing,” she waves her hand in nonchalance, “can read them and their behaviours, however complex, better than any human Tom, Dick, or Harry.”_
> 
> _“That’s sexist,” he throws with a grin, “I’m sure there’s an army of Karens storming the hospital right now demanding equal treatment.”_
> 
> _“Shit,” she covers her mouth conspiratorially, “do you think they heard?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor CW - The first section references (but does not describe in vivid detail) oral sex. Skip until the microscopes 🔬if it makes you uncomfortable ... then again you're reading an A/B/O so...

  
  


It’s the best dream he’s ever had.   
  
If it features his 0.01% pretty patient, no one needs to know.   
  
She’s on her knees in front of him, one hand on his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his length. Head bobbing up and down in a long and languid slide. It’s luxurious and lacks the forced enthusiasm he usually gets. She’s enjoying it, making it last. Drawing it out for both their pleasure.   
  
Occasionally her eyes flicker up to his with a hint of a smile. Usually after a bliss inducing flick of her tongue just over his blunt head. Bright hazel, he notes. That 0.01% margin just got even smaller. He’s dangerously close to emotions he has no place feeling. Ones he’s convinced aren’t for the likes of him. And even if they are, his probability of achieving any kind of relationship of _that_ calibre are a close approximation to 0.   
  
But that’s not what this is, so he allows himself this fantasy. Lets it run loose to paint an idyllic picture.  
  
Ironically enough she’s still wearing that god awful hospital gown. Her hair is a greasy mess but his hand is tangled in it anyway. Holding it back in an uneven ponytail and massaging her scalp. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. It’s also hot as fuck. He can feel the grease on her scalp as her tongue slides over his heated skin which is weirdly specific for a dream.  
  
The room is still her shitty little ICU room. Monitors still beeping softly in the background. Lights still a bright fluorescent that’s, frankly, unholy. Too harsh and intense. Her pulse oximeter still clamped on the finger gripping his thigh. IV drip attached to the hand that moves at the same rhythm as her mouth. She’s making these beautiful little mewling noises to boot. It’s a heady mix combined with the wet slurps and rhythmic tug.  
  
Ben’s always been a lucid dreamer. Some kind of inherent need to control everything down to his dreams. He appreciates his neural activity in that regard. It makes him feel powerful. Like a God in his own kingdom.  
  
So noticing details like the sterile hospital room or her greasy hair puts a bit of a damper on such an otherwise perfect dream.   
  
He mentally notes to change the setting next time. Maybe his place, on the bed. Give her hair a nice bounce. Maybe a touch of mascara to bring out that incredible blend of grey-green with flecks of amber (which probably is a pipe dream but…). _Definitely_ something other than a hospital gown. Maybe a silk robe or a nice form fitting négligé.  
  
He feels himself twitch inside her mouth. Sees her eyes dart up to gauge his reaction before fluttering closed again in pleasure.  
  
Oh, he’s definitely having _this_ dream again. _Definitely.  
  
_ He can feel himself getting close. Can even hear himself groan periodically as she works him. Hears himself moan something about being close, about her being _so, so good_.  
  
Her eyes glance up, preening in light of his praise.  
  
And then … all of a sudden … the lucid is gone. She’s pulled off him, eyes boring into his while her pupils swallow her irises whole. Endless black replacing the pretty wash of colour he’s imagined for her.   
  
They’re pleading, needy but raw and animalistic. It’s _horrifying_.  
  
Her mouth hangs open, a little string of spittle still connects her to him. Tethers him to the corner of her lips, to the perfect little dream he was having before it all went to shits.  
  
And then her voice. Melodic and haunted all at once.  
  
“Alpha?”  
  
Everything turns black.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


He startles awake. Body jolting uncomfortably as he’s pulled out of a sweet dream turned sour.   
  
Looking down he notices there’s no bulge in his pants … weird? Usually dreams of that nature at least accompany an uncomfortable waking situation. He feels a bit of a tingle there but nothing out of the ordinary. Like a twitch, like his dick would like to enact that dream in reality but for some reason feels wrung out. In fact, he feels surprisingly refreshed. Like he’d _actually_ finished and taken the edge off but there’s no stain on his jeans to prove otherwise.  
  
_Strange.  
  
_ What’s stranger still, is the rhythmic beeping of her monitors is faster than it was when he’d come in. A pace that’s usually associated with…  
  
He looks up.  
  
_Wakefulness.  
  
_ And sure enough, she’s sitting up in bed looking at him.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
Is it possible that his imagination is _so_ good, _so_ spot-on that he got her voice right in his dream? And then there’s the matter of her eyes -  
  
“Are you mute? Hmm? Can’t speak there, Dopey?”  
  
\- he got those right too. A kaleidoscope of green and light brown and, under the bright fluorescent light, a smidge of grey. And … wait did she just snark him?  
  
He blinks a few times, staring at the gutsy little gremlin sitting in the bed. She’s all of 5 years his junior. A tiny thing by his standards though probably statuesque compared to the mean of her gender. A fucking wolf lady by trade. And _she’s_ … _snarking him?  
  
_ “Were you raised by wolves?” he throws back, cocking his head. His voice might be a touch groggy, but two can play this game, missy.  
  
“No, just work with them. Are you the nurse?”  
  
_The nurse? The_ nerve!  
  
He sputters indignantly. He’s just woken up for fucks sake, he _needs_ a minute to return to earth after _that_ dream. One that apparently is day and night from the real thing. A mouthy little…  
  
“Solo. _Doctor_ Solo. Diagnostician,” he starts, smoothing his hand across his coat while straightening his spine, “wolverines then?”  
  
She has the audacity to _smirk_ at him. “What the bloody fuck is a diagnostician? Is that some kind of made up medical term?”  
  
“Aah, Tasmanian devil. Got it.”  
  
She snorts in response. “Alright, definitely a _real_ doctor. But,” she taps her chin with her IV hand, “apparently one with a mild obsession with wildlife? I’m British I’ll have you know. And though Australia and its Tasmanian state are _technically_ commonwealth, we are not, in fact, one and the same.”  
  
He chuckles. She’s smart, factual. Not a characteristic he’d associate with a wolf lady. “You bit a nurse. I’d appreciate if you didn’t _behave_ like a wild animal with my staff.”  
  
She quirks her brow, lips pursing like _she’s_ in the position of power. It’s irritating as _fuck_ and it turns him on why the _fuck_ is it turning him on?  
  
“Well that explains the wildlife obsession,” she mumbles smugly, then cocks her head pretending to think. Her voice takes on a thick note of sarcasm, “ _Your_ staff, huh? Ohhh I see Dr. Diagnostics. You _own_ this hospital, don’t you? I thought people like that,” her finger darts up and down in the air, “dressed … differently.”  
  
If he’s sporting a semi-chub, that’s no one’s business.   
  
“I’m very sorry Ms. Niima. I’ll be sure to don my most impressive livery the next time you wake. After you ravenously feed on my staff, of course.”  
  
“It’s alright,” she rolls her eyes, leaning back against the pillows smugly, “just don’t let it happen again.”  
  
She makes a show of grimacing when her fingers run through her hair. Ben, in turn, makes a show of checking her chart like he doesn’t already know it inside out.  
  
_Why is his heart pumping so fast?  
  
_ Her heart rate monitor keeps track of time for them. Each blip marking the passage of a fraction of a minute and filling the air in the room with tension. It settles between them like stubbornness in a battle of wits.  
  
Hot or not, _he’s_ the fucking doctor. She’s his _patient_. _And_ she’s been able to run with sarcasm better than any woman he’s ever met.   
  
_Fuck that’s hot.  
  
_ She groans loud and long. Like a scorned teenager. A drawn out _ughhh_ that’s sharp and throaty at the end. Throws her head back like she’s conceding but not of her own volition.  
  
Then her gaze falls into her lap where her hands are wringing the blanket.  
  
“I don’t have any recollection of _assaulting_ anyone, as you say,” she says quietly, mostly to her hands, “and I still have no clue what a diagnostician is.”  
  
_Ha. Success. I win.  
  
_ “I can bring in nurse Finn so you can compare your dental imprint against the bite mark on his forearm,” he can’t let it go, that’s just not in his DNA, “as for diagnosticians…”  
  
He flings the chart onto one of the stainless steel trolleys and saunters closer to the monitor to lean against the wall there, cool as a cucumber. Casually, he runs his fingers through his hair. Crosses his arms over his chest. Still casual. He’s doing it right, right?  
  
_Why does he want to impress her?  
  
_ “We do exactly what the name implies. We solve medical mysteries and specialize in pushing buttons until the underlying condition waves a flag of surrender.”  
  
“So you’re a medical conqueror…”  
  
That actually sounds really good. His chest puffs out, “something like that.”  
  
She juts her chin defiantly, “well then, doctor _Bonaparte_ , is sarcasm part of the arsenal? Or just _your_ particular brand of warfare?”  
  
He throws her an annoyed look but deep down he knows there’s no fire in it. It’s not the same as the ones he tosses his team or other staff members. Somehow this evil (kind of awesome) she-wolf managed to capture his attention and _hold it_.  
  
“I simply excel at annoying my patients until the disease practically begs to be put out of its misery.”  
  
“I see,” her eyes meet his and from this close they remind him of a stormy ocean he’d once seen in Ireland while vacationing with his parents in his teens. A complex fusion of grey and green with a hint of brown. _Just_ like in his dream.   
  
_Damn he’s good._   
  
The corners of her mouth twitch the slightest bit before she continues their verbal match, “is providing uncomfortable accommodations part of this annoyance then?”  
  
“You must have forgotten to check the airbnb ratings,” he pans smoothly.  
  
She snorts in response but it only eggs him on.  
  
“You mean to say you’re not comfortable?” He asks with an exaggerated air of surprise, “do you not find everything to your standards?”  
  
“I find your bedside manner lacking, if I’m being honest,” she lifts her brow defiantly.  
  
“Oh, my apologies, Ms. Niima,” he offers with mock concern, “I’ll just have your release papers drafted then. In a few short minutes you can be on your merry way to terrorize another hospital.”  
  
“Aren’t you just a gift to medicine?” she bites.  
  
“Sometimes, the greatest gift is the gift of never seeing you again.” He doesn’t mean that in the slightest, but the snark is strong with this one.  
  
“Alright, alright, alright,” she huffs, throwing her hands up. They land softly on the hospital bed rankling the IV attached to her hand. “You give as good as you get. You got me. And it’s Rey. None of that Ms. Niima bullshit.”  
  
Does he grin? Like a buffoon.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


He finds conversation with her flows easy. Too easy. After they’d worn each other down with copious amounts of snark, she’d relented to answering questions.  
  
He stuck to medical, of course. He’s the professional and it would be uncouth to ask anything personal. But she defied logic and drew him in like a puppet on a string.  
  
“Any allergies you’re aware of?”   
  
“Stupidity.”  
  
“Sensory sensitivities? Are things too bright? Rough? Certain foods upset your stomach?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sensitive to bad food _and_ stupidity.”  
  
He sighs, lowering the chart into his lap. He’d pulled the chair from across the room to her bedside. Slung his feet up into the bed leaning back and going through his questionnaire like they’re old friends not doctor/patient. Weird.  
  
_No, not weird. Just right.  
  
_She’s being difficult but he doesn’t fault her. These questions are boring and will literally tell him nothing that those tests rolling in tomorrow or his Alaskan recon team won’t. It’s a formality to make patients feel like he’s doing his job.   
  
And she doesn’t care. So why should he?  
  
“Alright … sooo, why study wolves?”  
  
_That was casual, right?  
  
_“Cause they’re cute, duh!”  
  
He huffs, adjusting his feet so his left is on top of the right. It’s important to cut off circulation in equal measures. That way you avoid that blasted tingling sensation altogether and can prolong an unnatural (but exceptionally comfortable) position.  
  
“You could have been a dog trainer if you wanted cute. Try again. Why wolves?” He repeats.  
  
She scrunches her nose at him before shifting her eyes to his feet. “Nice Jordans. New?”  
  
“You’re deflecting. One more time Ms. Niima, why wolves?”  
  
“ _Rey_ ,” she corrects with a fiery side glance.  
  
She sighs deeply. Like his question is an affront to her soul. Which it might be. But it doesn’t matter. Right now he _really_ wants to know. And he really doesn’t want to unpack exactly _why_ he wants to know so badly.  
  
“You won’t let this go, will you?”  
  
“Nope,” he pops the P obnoxiously shaking his head and grinning. He’s fucking _grinning_. At a patient, no less.   
  
Sensing her concession, he leans back in his chair triumphantly, waiting to have his curiosity quelled.  
  
“Fine. I started studying wildlife biology because I find people too … complex,” she starts, a faraway look in her eyes, “and not in a good way. They lie, cheat, steal. Say one thing but do another. Animals don’t do that. Wildlife even more so. They have no reason to, unlike domesticated animals. I’ve seen plenty of friend’s dogs counter surf even though they’re told not to. Wildlife is easy. Eat, sleep, mate, repeat. You know?”  
  
“Huh, I see counter surfing as a direct byproduct of opportunity. But … why wolves?”  
  
“I just … found their pack dynamic fascinating. Like an entire social structure built without cinder blocks or religion or … or ridiculous rules. The entire pack’s sole purpose is survival and every member is dedicated to that purpose regardless of their status. What about you? Why medicine? Why _diagnostics_?”  
  
He grunts. No one questions him. But there’s something good and right, something easy about conversing with her. Nay, _opening up_ to her.  
  
“I hate people,” he admits with a shrug, “so … I figured if I wanted to kill them, who’d suspect the diagnostician?”  
  
“Ha,” she titters lightly, a massive grin eating up half her face (she does have a nice smile, and nice teeth too), “brilliant. Just fucking brilliant!”  
  
“I’m a practical man,” he shrugs.  
  
Ok, she’s pretty. He’s established that watching her sleep earlier. She can hold her own against him better than anyone he’s met. So now she’s cute to boot. He _might_ just like her as a person. An elevation just a smidge above utter indifference he treats most humans with. Even if they’re his 0.01%.  
  
The attraction he’ll keep at arm's length because … well, _because_. Period. End of sentence. If it’s toddler logic, who’s going to question him?  
  
“So … wolf society huh?” He drawls, uncharacteristically anxious to keep the flow of conversation going. _Needing_ to talk to her more for some strange reason.  
  
“Like I said, their society and pack dynamics are intriguing,” she waves her hand in nonchalance, “can read them and their behaviours, however complex, better than any human Tom, Dick, or Harry.”  
  
“That’s sexist,” he throws with a grin, “I’m sure there’s an army of Karens storming the hospital _right now_ demanding equal treatment.”  
  
“Shit,” she covers her mouth conspiratorially, “do you think they heard?”  
  
“We _do_ have a nurse on this floor named Karen. But … she’s on the night shift. I can’t guarantee she doesn’t have spies but … your secret's safe with me, _Rey_.” He adds a wink for good measure.  
  
She releases a long, drawn out exhale to signify he’s lifted a load off her shoulders. Then begins to laugh looking at her open palms in her lap.  
  
Dammit, he really likes her. Really _really_ likes this little fireball of a patient he’s _trying_ to diagnose. She’s smart, and witty, her sarcasm is off the charts. Her banter world class. She throws back quickly and always out of left field.  
  
If she wasn’t laying in a bed with unknown symptoms he’d _definitely_ try to ask her out and botch the attempt entirely. Probably send her running for the hills.  
  
Just then, a knock sounds at the door. He knows it’s a formality more than anything. There’s no such thing as full privacy at a hospital. Just as soon as the rapping stops the door swings open gently to reveal a nurse walking in with a tray.  
  
“Here you go, Rey. Make sure you eat all of it otherwise we’ll charge double for nutritive IVs,” the older woman chuckles before she catches sight of Ben. Rey smiles at the nurse sweetly, thanking her with exquisite British formality. Flashing every single one of her too-white, too-straight, perfect teeth.  
  
The nurse quickly stiffens at the sight of Ben and marches out quietly. Smile wiped off the moment she laid eyes on him.  
  
_Good.  
  
_As soon as the door closes Rey harrumphs, letting her body sag and her tongue loll out in disgust. Ben flashes her a raised eyebrow, amused at her about-face.  
  
“What?” she questions, pushing the watery bowl of mac n cheese as though it’s offensive, “I thought you were one of the cool ones. Don’t tell me you operate under the assumption that hospital food is _actual_ food.”  
  
He can only shake his head and chuckle. She’s right, of course. Hospital food can hardly be categorized as food. Is leaps and bounds below greasy diner food, let alone Michelin star restaurant quality. That is (comparatively speaking) not just out of its realm, but in a galaxy far, far away. But he won’t let her know that. Giving _anyone_ an inch has never been his way.  
  
“I’d _kill_ for a bowl of phở and some cold rolls right now,” she mutters picking up her spork and pushing the mush around in the bowl.  
  
And that about does it for him. He liked her before. Even conceded to _admitting it_ to himself. He’d even had a questionable dream about her which he _definitely_ planned on having again. Now he’s just flat out infatuated. Convinced he’d cooked her up in his dreams and that he’s still, in fact, sleeping.  
  
She must have stricken him completely dumb because the next thing he registers is her snapping her fingers in front of his face.  
  
“Hello? Uh, earth to Solo?”  
  
He blinks a few times, willing his mind back into the room and out of his bedroom where he’s mentally peeling a very form fitting black dress off her body at an intoxicatingly slow pace.  
  
“Did-” he furrows his brows, it’s not possible. It’s _impossible_ , “-did you just quote Zoolander at me?”  
  
“What are you talking about?” She grins mischievously, “I didn’t ask for an orange mocha Frappuccino.”  
  
_Aaaand he’s a goner_.  
  
“Tell you what, if you finish that bottle of water there, I’ll personally get you cold rolls. I can’t promise the soup,” he warns standing up and shifting to lean on the corner of her bed, “but I can _definitely_ sneak in cold rolls past Cerberus over there.” For effect, he jerks his head towards the door to imply he’s talking about the nurse that had just left, Janice.   
  
She giggles sweetly. “Well, we wouldn’t want to alert Hades now, would we,” she tips her head to the side, eyes flitting across his face before settling back on his, “besides … water _is_ the essence of beauty…”  
  
“ _Moisture_ is the essence of wetness, which is the essence of beauty,” he corrects, unable to help himself from booping her nose with his finger.   
  
And just what the _fuck_ has he been reduced to?!  
  
“Something like that,” she drawls playfully, scrunching her nose. She closes her fingers around the bottle cap and twists.  
  
Good grip, healthy hand eye coordination. Nothing of concern with her motor skills or strength. Her mood is light, body relaxed, face open. Nothing about the woman sitting in this bed right now screams ‘heal me’. As far as he’s concerned, she’s perfectly healthy. The monitors hooked up to her confirm his observation.  
  
She tips the bottle back and guzzles the 500mL bottle in full. Ben notes that she isn’t flinching or displaying the slightest signs of hydrophobia. In fact, she looks to be enjoying it quite thoroughly. Eyes closed and facial muscles relaxed. No temporomandibular tightness to be seen. Though drinking a bottle all at once is a sign she might be dehydrated. Even if the saline drip tethered to her arm would indicate otherwise.  
  
_Definitely not rabies.  
  
_Re-screwing the cap and placing the empty bottle on her tray, she gives him a quizzical look. “You owe me cold rolls. I’m hungry and I am _not_ eating this mush.”  
  
“You're right,” he concedes, “I promised and I _will_ deliver. Mind if I finish up my check by examining that?” His pen points at the lacerations on her neck. They’re red and slightly swollen, an apparent crust formed overtop but are visually devoid of any liquid. She nods in agreement, tilting her head to the opposite side to grant him access.  
  
Snapping on a glove, he proceeds to run his finger over it gently, feeling the texture of the skin and the heat of it. There was, in fact, an oily residue it left on his glove but not enough to be considered weeping. More in line with your mouth producing saliva to keep your tongue moist.  
  
He hums in thought as he gently presses on the sides of the laceration. Checking for inflamed lymph nodes, tonsils, or general swelling. It’s harder there, like there’s something beneath the skin but it doesn’t seem to elicit a reaction from her.  
  
Did Dameron or Hux already do this? Maybe. Does he trust them? Eeh, it doesn’t hurt to double check. He likes to be thorough, sue him.  
  
“You know,” she starts gently, a shiver wracking her body as he draws closer to inspect her neck, “I was wrong about you.” Her voice is soft. There’s something velvety in the way she speaks at low volume. Like it’s meant for _just_ him. And he doesn’t mean Dr. Solo. He means _Ben_.  
  
“That so?” He returns equally quiet. The conversation tipping into flirtation.   
  
He may be no expert, but no one’s used that tone on him in a professional setting, _ever._ His thumb runs over the expanse again with a little more pressure, only to elicit the same shiver accompanied by a small gasp.  
  
_Interesting. Manipulation of the laceration elicits a physical reaction.  
  
_He brings his gloved hand to his nose, sniffs at the residue with interest only to find that the hospitals before him had gotten it right after all. No discernible odour. Nothing rotten or infected about the fluid expulsion. Maybe the lab results will shed some light on their makeup.  
  
“Yeah,” she’s practically whispering now, head lolling to the side and eyes closed like she’s actually enjoying his clinical examination.   
  
And, well, he might be too. He _might_ be leaning in a little too closely. His mouth _might_ be a little dry. He _might_ be subtly inhaling her natural scent. The one that overrides the sterile hospital soap and scent free detergent they use on medical robes and bedding yet still manages to have a scent.  
  
“Y-yeah,” she starts again, “I think you’re a really, really, really ridiculously good doctor.” The delivery is accompanied by a huff of air he can only assume is meant to be laughter. It fans over the exposed crook of his neck and snakes it’s way beneath his shirt, down his chest and back. Like her breath has grown fingers that now rake over his upper body. It _does_ things to him. Like set his skin on fire and cause a complete upper body piloerection.  
  
Like make him reckless enough to start peeling off his glove for a tactile analysis of the lesion and it’s fluid.  
  
“I’ll have you know,” he says tossing the glove into the bin, “that if shit hits the fan, I’m also an _excellent_ eu-google-izer.”  
  
She’s about to start laughing. He’s begun picking up on her tells for some reason. Some ungodly syncing of his body to hers that leaves him warring with himself. Unable to resist the pull yet incapable of dropping the insufferable doctor act in spite of the glaring attraction.  
  
Then, his thumb ghosts over the laceration. Bare skin meeting bare skin for the very first time. She’s hot there, warmer to his unprotected touch. The liquid, more watery than oily. The texture of the lesion smooth, like the swollen skin around a subcutaneous cyst with a thin, papery crust that’s reminiscent of a healed scab.  
  
The touch elicits what’s _undeniably_ a moan.  
  
_Very interesting.  
  
_He wants to do it again. Again and again and again because that … _that_ was addicting in the best of ways.   
  
The medical professional in him immediately wants to analyze why direct manipulation of a laceration would induce a sexual response (that’s gotta be what that is). Wants to test and see if the one on the other side of her head responds the same way. But a bigger part of him, perhaps the selfish bastard that chants _mine, mine, mine_ everytime something strikes his fancy, wants this to be _just_ his.  
  
His bare hand ghosts over the slope of her neck, drawing a trail of goosebumps which he visually maps with great personal interest. Down her neck and onto her trapezius where the biggest sore is. A large patch of inflamed red skin about 4 inches in diameter.  
  
The skin there is hotter. It _throbs._ He can practically feel it pulsate under his fingers and he wonders how _that_ hasn’t been documented before. So he presses it gently if only to feel for inflammation.  
  
He only has a moment to register the change in her face as he glances up from his enraptured touching. A moment to see that her pupils have swallowed the pretty hazel irises of her eyes. Her mouth hanging agape and panting.  
  
When their eyes meet, her hands rise up to his chest, fisting the lapel of his coat. It’s primal the way she looks at him. Absolute and unadulterated lust in her eyes (at least that’s what he’s convinced he sees). Exactly like in the dream.  
  
Entrances he watches her mouth form the word every chart that’s arrived on his desk trailed her with. The one that broke his dream.  
  
“Alpha?”  
  
_There go the hallucinations._   
  
With a heavy heart (for once in his life) he reaches for the drip.   
  
He gives her a sad smile. An unspoken apology as his finger deftly flips the switch to allow flow. He wants to reach out and caress her cheek. Wants to comfort her and tell her it’ll be okay. That he’ll figure this out then they can go back to this beautiful banter they’ve built between them.   
  
The lorazepam drips steadily as he holds her gaze. Watching her wide pupils slowly drift far away. Watching her fall asleep, leaving him alone.  
  
Ben’s always been a loner. At first, it wasn’t by choice. Now he’s come to relish it.  
  
In this moment, he wishes he wasn’t.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


The bánh mì is excellent, truly. It’s the cilantro. Or maybe the mayo? No definitely the shredded pork. God if his mother knew he was eating pork she’d chew him out. But he knows she’ll steal a slice of pepperoni pizza from the staff lounge when she thinks no one’s looking, so she can gripe about kosher elsewhere. Not that he’d tell her anyway. Sometimes you just have to live a little.  
  
The events of earlier this evening hang heavily over him. He feels … guilty. Why the fuck does he feel guilty? She’s a patient. He’s done _way_ worse. Like that one time he asked Hux to biopsy a growth the patient expressly asked not to biopsy during surgery.   
  
Knocking someone out (for their own good) is pretty much the norm for him. Especially in the midst of diagnosing. _Especially_ when potentially harmful symptoms reared.  
  
That doesn’t make it a less bitter pill to swallow.   
  
It’s the first time he’s given a fuck and the first time he feels guilty. And it’s decidedly _not_ going away with good food and a lowball of Hendrick’s. On ice, twist of lime because he _deserves_ it and because the bouquet of his favourite gin always makes him feel better.   
  
Not even having _Unsolved Mysteries_ on in the background to throw snide remarks at the _very believable_ interviews and reenactments is helping.   
  
He _shouldn’t_ feel guilty. Tries to convince himself of it with every bite, but it doesn’t stop the bitterness of his actions from coating his insides. From dulling the things he typically takes pleasure in.  
  
His phone pings and he reluctantly checks it, chewing an oversized bite while his cheek bulges chipmunk style.   
  
**Hux:** _Finally checked into the hotel. Visited patient house & local establishments. Got good intel but not of much use. One bar owner had some interesting stories. Will go to the rehab center first thing in the AM before flight.  
  
_Idiot. Her place of work would have been the second place he’d check. Right after her home.  
  
He wonders what her home looks like. If it’s one of those log cabins he imagines or if it’s just an apartment. They have apartments in Anchorage, right? If not, is it a bungalow or two story? Does she drive a snowmobile? Or a shitty beater with chained up tires? Is she the type to keep neat or does she live in a perpetual state of chaos.   
  
_The latter, probably.  
  
_He shoots Hux a response, if only to feel a modicum of control.  
  
**Solo:** _Ok. Sorry we couldn’t get you two doubles. Hope you don’t mind sharing a king.  
  
_At least that makes him smile.  
  
It’ll be fine. He feels guilt right now because this is the first person - _woman_ \- whom he’s felt connected and drawn to in ages. The faster he can get a diagnosis the faster she can be back on her way to Alaska and out of his life so he can continue living within the parameters he’s set for himself.  
  
Tomorrow afternoon the test results will start trickling in. Whatever Hux and Dameron thought was important enough to run will at least give them a solid starting point. Tico and Hux will also be back by then so they’ll get a good hypothesis testing session in.  
  
He pops the last of the sandwich in his mouth. Cleans up his coffee table and washes his glass.  
  
When he’s brushing his teeth, he doesn’t think about how he’d asked Janice to see if they could move her into a room with a window. He doesn’t think about how the first thing he did after putting her under was walk to the same Vietnamese restaurant from earlier for a double order of cold rolls. Or that he left an apologetic little sticky note on the inside of the styrofoam lid that simply read ‘so you don’t maul the staff upon waking, princess.’  
  
He doesn’t think about these things. He doesn’t. _He doesn’t._ Because he’s not willing to examine the things brewing in his chest too closely.  
  
At least not _yet_.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to all the Karens out there getting hammered right now for their name. You the real MVPs.
> 
> But seriously ... don't come after me :/


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Exactly,” she smiles wholesomely, “and that TV. It’s so big. Bet I could watch Cops in crystal clear definition.”_
> 
> _“You could,” he steps back to fiddle with a box of gloves, knowing full well that he’s going to hate himself for what he’s about to do, “but that doesn’t start till 4:00.”_
> 
> _“Oh, well then I suppose I could go do some karate in the garage. Or … masturbate to my favourite non-pornographic magazine.”_
> 
> _“Good Housekeeping?” he muses as he pulls out a glove, then puts it back thinking better of it. Yesterday it was direct skin contact and it won’t hurt to try again, right? Test his theory?_
> 
> _She’s laughing lightly. A smile plastered to her face that crinkles her eyes and tugs at his heart strings. “Usually people stare at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. I can’t believe how many people don’t know Step Brothers.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unravelling a medical mystery? LOL OK Boomer.
> 
> This chapter is a monster btw. I'd say I'm sorry but I'm really knot.
> 
> Side note: I've been **DYING** to drop a knot joke.

When he wakes up he feels good.  
  
Well … his neck feels a bit stiff and he’s mildly aware he needs to take out the garbage. Shit, he can smell the stink of it from his bedroom. He doesn’t remember it smelling quite so bad last night, but then his senses are usually dampened after a long day at the hospital. Even if his mind’s still sharp, the sterile scent of hospital disinfectants tends to build up throughout the day, blanketing his senses. Only resetting after a good night’s sleep.  
  
Which he got.  
  
And he had no dreams of _her_. No dreams at all, to be perfectly honest. And that’s fine. He couldn’t expect his brain to give a repeat performance twice in one evening. In fact, it kind of saves him from having to awkwardly jerk off first thing in the morning while he’s still wildly uncoordinated.  
  
So without further ado, he rolls himself out of bed and into the bathroom to brush his teeth. From his bathroom into his kitchen for his protein smoothie. Packed with a generous scoop of vanilla whey protein and an entire baggie of Costco’s tropical frozen fruit. From his kitchen to the gym because he _doesn’t_ skip leg day and because … gains. He enjoys the burn. The muscle fatigue after a heavy lift.   
  
Oh who is he kidding, he _might_ still have a complex from when he was a gangly teenager with over-large ears and the world’s worst haircut for accentuating them (thanks, Ma). From when kids in his middle-school class would call him beanstalk Ben while simultaneously poking fun of his packed latkes. _Fuckers_. Hope you’re doing great stocking shelves at Walmart, _Suzy_.  
  
He spends an hour at the gym pushing his muscles to the brink of exhaustion. 10 minutes showering, 15 minutes blow drying his hair (because he will _not_ have his ears exposed at work). Then another half an hour strolling in the cool morning air to the hospital. Making a quick stop at Starbucks. Because coffee, banana bread and _their_ oatmeal is the holy breakfast trinity. _Yeah, Ma, I know we’re Jewish.  
  
_ Does he have a sweet tooth? _No._ At least not that he’ll admit to out loud. He doesn’t need his mother’s judgemental glares and wagging fingers reminding him that’s where cavities come from like some toddler. So no, he won’t think about or admit to that. Today more so than ever, strangely enough.   
  
Does he smell little nuances in people’s perfumes and colognes today? _Yes._ It’s bothersome but not going to drive him crazy anytime soon. He just assumes his sinuses are in pristine condition for once in his life and he’s had the most wholesome sleep he’s had in years. Even if his neck still feels sore.  
  
He smiles to himself as he clears the sliding doors and strides to the elevator. Every action and step he’s taken this morning holds the promise of a good day. A _great_ day. Finding joy and solace in his meticulously tailored routine. He feels it in his very bones.   
  
He’ll confirm with the nurse’s station that her room’s been changed but he decidedly _won’t_ go see her. That’s dangerous for him. Especially after last night. Maybe … _just maybe_ , he’ll go see her _after_ the lab results come back and he’s had a chance to review with his team.  
  
What he most certainly _will do_ is consume a boatload of research papers until then while deftly avoiding Dameron. He’s for sure caught onto the fact that Ben’s little Wolff-Parkinson-White shtick was just that. A shtick. A ruse. A little white lie to focus his attention elsewhere.  
  
When he plops himself down at his desk and grabs his ball to toss around, he’s _definitely_ not thinking about his patient.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


“All blood samples returned normal. She’s fine. Healthy even,” Hux is pushing around a lab sheet on the table yawning. His head rests in his palm heavily. By the looks of it, they didn’t get much sleep.  
  
Ben can’t help smiling to himself. _Of course_ they didn’t get any sleep. He purposely put them in a room with _one_ bed. Not that that would have mattered. They’d probably have fornicated like rabbits even if he’d gotten a room with 2 beds. It was meant to be a nod. A tiny sleight to let them know he’s onto them, which they seem to be blissfully unaware of.  
  
 _Good.  
  
_ _Soon.  
  
_ “PCR also came back negative,” Tico yawns in turn, pushing the paper towards Dameron with a knowing smirk. He does _not_ look happy.  
  
The paper snags on the donut box he’d brought in to appease his kids. Chock full of their favourites like Boston cream and old fashioned plain. He can be nice. But he’s not _that_ nice. He _knows_ Dameron likes the glazed cruller, Tico the chocolate glaze, and Hux sour cream. So he purposely got everything _but_ those.  
  
“It’s not the gold standard in rabies testing, you know,” Dameron grumbles, “for that we need brain tissue. Run ourselves an FAT. Permission to biopsy?”  
  
“It’s _not_ rabies,” Ben mutters.  
  
“Yeah, right,” Hux laughs simultaneously, “let’s just chunk out her brain to test a theory that, for all intents and purposes, holds no water.” To make his point, Hux’s eyes drift to the PCR test results.   
  
He’s right. Even without the call to Alaska regional, if this test result showed no trace of rabies RNA, and the saliva version of the test _does_ have a 45.5% accuracy ante-mortem, it would be remiss to cut her skull open over a pipe dream and machismo. They’ll need a little more than a 50/50 probability to do something drastic. Dameron’s just a trigger happy fly-boy.  
  
“We’re definitely _not_ mutilating her body unless we have a more probable lead,” he admonishes, staring at the strangest of all the test results.  
  
“But … I know exactly where to biopsy without harming her mental function,” Dameron whines disgruntled. He sighs then looks back down on the table, “well, ImmunoCAP also came back clean, so she’s not allergic to anything.” He side-eyes Tico spitefully, like she’s responsible his theory didn’t work out. He also takes his 5th look at the donut box and scowls.  
  
“This one is the only abnormal result,” Ben throws down the paper. It’s not even a test, really. The lab had leftovers and knew he’d be picky so they ran it for God knows what reason. And yet here it was.  
  
“Presence of AND in nasal swab?” Hux looks at him incredulously, “what the ever loving shit is that even?”  
  
“16-androstadien-3-one. A progesterone derivative. The other jumble of numbers is basically estratetraenol. Considered potential pheromone candidates in psychophysiology,” Dameron offers. His hand reaches to slide the sheet in front of Hux as if that might clarify the results.  
  
“So … you’re inferring she’s … what exactly? Horny?” Tico sounds annoyed.  
  
“Completely unrelated but…” Hux clears his throat turning an uncomfortable shade of scarlet, “the night shift change noted an unusual amount of … umm … vaginal lubrication.”  
  
The last portion of his speech delivered with a squeak and an apologetic look to his _girlfriend_. That’s what they are now, right? They’ve now ‘vacationed’ together. It might as well be official.  
  
“Funny that’s what you’d hone in on,” she snorts sarcastically, “I didn’t see the same note made early morning. Or at noon. Or … oh, I don’t know, an _hour ago_ when I went to get the chart?”  
  
“Now hold on Tico,” Dameron interjects, “the timing _does_ coincide with a period of wakefulness. The ECG shows a spike over an hour period last night. She was awake then, based on the frequency so maybe she’s not horny when she’s … sleeping? Only awake?”  
  
“Could explain the hysteria,” Hux mumbles.  
  
“Oh and then how do you explain her morning report? No lubrication _there_ Sherlock. And your precious ECG clearly shows she’d been up about an hour prior to that.”  
  
Tico’s eyes spew fire at Dameron. Perhaps she’s trying to steer the conversation away from the topic of sexual arousal. Perhaps she’s just irked by the fact that the other two might like it.  
  
Come to think of it … Ben picks up the ECG print out from last night and eyes it carefully. It coincides with his visit. It’s preposterous to think that _he’d_ had that effect on her. Sure, his ego is beating itself in the chest, proud in all its caveman glory at the possible coincidence. But that’s impossible.   
  
He was there for all of … well, an hour? Does his nap count towards his time spent in her presence?   
  
And, sure, attraction can cause an influx of serotonin, maybe even get someone riled up but not _sheet change_ riled up.  
  
He remembers her reaction to his touch. To his touch specifically on...  
  
What if it had something to do with the lesions…  
  
“The estratetraenol came from the lesion swabs,” Ben says distantly. Puzzle pieces beginning to float in his mind’s eye. Knobs and sockets testing their fit with each other only to float away and try again.  
  
“So now you all think she’s basically _leaking_ sex hormones or pheromones or whatever the hell that is,” Tico drawls, “are all of you going insane?”  
  
Dameron and Hux have the good graces to look abashed. Ben just looks out the window in contemplation. It’s the only test result that has anything out of the ordinary.  
  
“She’s a _woman_ ,” Tico rolls her eyes, throwing herself back into the chair, “not some kind of sex-crazed animal. What are you guys even _thinking_? At _best_ you can link it to the times the nurses took her off meds so she could get some solid food in her system. _God_ do all men automatically turn to sex?”  
  
“At least it’s a lead,” Dameron snaps back, “maybe she’s pregnant.”  
  
“And you don’t think the blood test would have confirmed that? There’s no hCG detected on those tests.” Tico is _not_ having it.  
  
“Well they weren’t checking for pregnancy so maybe it was missed in that batch?” Dameron retorts, “we should run a urine test specifically for hCG to confirm.”  
  
“Don’t you think the other hospitals would have detected her pregnancy by now?”  
  
Dameron scoffs, “not if it coincides with the onset of her symptoms. You know test aren’t reliable until about 2 weeks.”  
  
The two doctors have locked eyes in a silent battle of wits. Two bullheaded idiots. A neurologist and immunologist dancing around the importance of pee in a cup while his surgeon’s eyes are glued to the table.  
  
The air is thick in the scrum room. So uncomfortable even Ben isn’t getting a kick out of it anymore. He should do something. Change the topic.  
  
 _Aah.  
  
_ “Hux, Tico … what did you discover in Anchorage?”   
  
It’s as good a tilt as he can manage.   
  
Tico reaches to grab a Boston cream. Making a show of biting into it more aggressively than necessary and purposely letting a gob of cream drip onto the table. She does one better and wipes it with a tissue, then proceeds to squeeze the remaining custard out of the donut onto said tissue, effectively turning it into a chocolate glaze.  
  
 _Smart.  
  
_ “I went to her house,” she starts as she chews the remnants of her bite before licking her chocolate tipped fingers, “nothing out of the ordinary there. Easy lock to pick too. She eats healthy. Rye bread instead of wonderbread. Homemade granola bars, cashew milk, a rainbow of veggies and sriracha in the fridge. Costco bags of frozen mahi mahi and fruit in the freezer. Fairtrade coffee beans and multi-grain cheerios in her cupboards. No unknown spices. Found a vitamin D supplement and a vegan nutritional shake there too, must be a pescetarian or something.   
  
“Bathroom shelves were devoid of medication save for a bottle of Advil, a box of pirate patterned band aids and polysporin. Doesn’t have any personal hygiene products to worry about. Uses dermatologically tested face wash and moisturizer. Barely owns makeup. Hypoallergenic soap in the shower. Uses some kind of shampoo and conditioner bar combo from Lush. I ended up Googling it and none of those ingredients are questionable either, though I’m considering ordering some for myself. The conditioner bar smelled _amazing_.  
  
“She makes her own cleaning solution from vinegar based on what I found. Has _one_ bottle of bleach. Took a water sample for the lab but I’m not holding my breath on it turning anything up. It’s Anchorage not Siberia.”  
  
She takes a bite of the donut and delivers the rest with her mouth full, “she’s even got one of those SAD lights on her desk. Don’t know what to tell you Solo. She’s boring and clean. Sorry to disappoint.”  
  
He’s not, in fact, disappointed. He’s surprisingly content. She’s about as boring as he is minus the sriracha. And only because his is expired and he hasn’t had a chance to refill his stash. She might actually just be _perfect.  
  
_ Ben wants to know what kind of bedsheets she has. If she uses one pillow or four. What kind of movies she owns. What kind of books line her shelves or if she uses an e-reader. What kind of music she listens to and if she collects CDs, vinyl, or just has a massively disorganized digital library. Does she subscribe to Spotify? If she’s an early riser or a night owl. If she drives with her hands at 10 and 2 or if she leans back and coasts with one hand on the wheel. He wants to know if she prefers showering in the morning or evenings. What her choice beverage is. If it’s wine or if she prefers a nice spirit. Or maybe she likes mixed drinks?  
  
He wants to know _everything.  
  
_ _Ok, this is getting ridiculous. Stop it. She’s your patient.  
  
_ “I, umm,” Hux starts, “went in the vicinity of her house to a few establishments. Most knew little of her. An employee at the local grocery store mentioned she’s pretty reclusive. Apparently she volunteers at the library. So I went and talked to them there. They corroborate she’s reclusive. Keeps to herself but is really good with children and the elderly. Helps where she can. No out of the norm behaviour noted.”  
  
“She does have quite the book collection,” Tico chimes in agreement, the words muffled by a mouthful of not-boston-cream-anymore donut.   
  
“Oh?” For some (unknown) reason that’s piqued his interest.  
  
“Yeah. Shelves lined with wildlife biology books. Couple of classics but … nothing concerning. No ‘wilderness foraging’ or ‘preparing game meat’ or anything that could set off warning bells.”  
  
“As I was saying,” Hux take the reins back from Tico, clearly annoyed she interrupted his prattling, “Most people in the vicinity peg her as reclusive. A loner. I did, however, go to a local bar not too far from her home. Takodana. Spoke to the owners there. Nice lady and her enormous husband. They … had some interesting things to say.”  
  
Everyone’s eyes are glued to Hux who seems to be relishing this. Ben wouldn’t have taken him for a storyteller. Hux is usually better with his hands than commanding attention. The nurturing type that prefers action over conversation. Or so he’s gathered. It’s weird to see him build up momentum and create tension, basking in the limelight. Ben could practically smell it.  
  
 _God, what a douche.  
  
_ “Yeah, so … they’re the ones who called the ambulance that got her admitted to St. Elias. Said she was there about 2 days after she’d been discharged from Alaska Regional … remember how she checked herself in after the wolf bite? Anyway. She was discharged there with no symptoms and some stitches. Went about her life for 2 days then went to the bar that night.   
  
“Apparently the owners have known her for a while. She liked to go there on Fridays to have a glass of gin on the rocks. Knows the owners Maz & Chewie quite well-”  
  
 _She drinks gin? What brand does she order?  
  
_ If his heart beats faster, no one notices.  
  
“-so she came in that night and had her drink. Then as the crowd grew Maz said she’d seen her talk to different men. She was flirtatious, which the owner says is out of the norm for her. Even caught her … umm … apparently kissing some of them. Said it was brief and she’d always repeat this one line, asking the same question. I think we all know which one by now-”  
  
 _Alpha?  
  
_ Why does he feel his hackles rising?  
  
“-the owner’s husband reckons she, and I quote, ‘musta made out with most the patrons’. Says she stumbled around after that gripping her head. When he went to check on her he found her passed out on a bench outside. Said she wasn’t responsive. That’s when he called the ambulance and the rest is history. Well, history as in documented in her patient chart. At least … that’s all I got. These two dudes started fighting pretty aggressively over a woman at the bar and he had to step in.”  
  
“Well … I guess we gotta add a new symptom then, Solo,” Dameron says smugly, leaning back in his chair, “ _horny._ ”  
  
“Oh _fuck off_ Dameron,” Tico throws, insulted at the return of her new favourite prognosis.  
  
And just like that they’ve devolved again into bickering like toddlers over a favourite toy.  
  
Ben doesn’t miss a beat, fascinated with the backstory that leaves more questions unanswered than not. “What about her place of work?”  
  
“Well, that’s the first place we actually called when we checked in at the gate,” Tico answers, “they said their director wasn’t in until today. That’s why we postponed going there until the morning.”  
  
 _So they didn’t quite fuck up the recon mission.  
  
_ “His name’s Ezra. Nice guy. Didn’t have much he could say about her other than that she’s sweet, a hard worker, and _really_ good with the packs they care for,” Hux offers.  
  
“Yeah, I don’t know about ‘nice guy’,” Tico shakes her head, “he gave me the creeps. All eerily calm. Something about him made my hair stand on end. Frankly, I wanted to punch him.”  
  
“You’re just being overdramatic. You two were posturing all over the place,” Hux throws Ben a look that tells him she was throwing barbed exchanges at the man but refuses to expose that in their scrum, “Ezra was very pleasant. Even showed us the wolf that bit our patient. Big dude. Massive.”  
  
Tico scoffs, “and he _also_ said they thought it was a _dire_ wolf. Those are fucking extinct. Did you buy _everything_ he said? We’re hunting for _facts_ , Hux, _not_ fairytales. Quit your dumbassery.”  
  
“Why would he lie?”  
  
“I don’t know?” she snips sarcastically, “because one of his precious animal charges _bit_ someone?”  
  
“You didn’t listen to him, did you?” Hux retorts calmly.  
  
“Enlighten me, then,” she rolls her eyes.  
  
Hux sighs, swiping his hand across his now salmon coloured cheeks, “he said Kanan is a _grey wolf_. But our patient worked with him and had made note he didn’t behave like a typical grey wolf. Called him an alpha. Recorded he had larger teeth than average grey wolves. Stronger bite force too. All in line with the extinct dire wolf according to our patient’s research. When he was brought in they traced some of the residue in his fur and found it came from some very specific vegetation found in … fuck I forget the name but Ezra said it was _really_ far north. See? Do you get it now? Did I do good?”  
  
“You did great, hon,” Tico pats his hand, relenting.  
  
“Wait, back up,” Dameron’s eyes have peeled wide open, “did … she was bit by an _alpha_ wolf, might even be an extinct wolf that came from some ridiculously remote place … she goes around asking for alpha … she’s aggressively hallucinating...”  
  
“Not again, Dameron,” they both groan in unison.  
  
“Hear me out, will you?” Dameron looks indignant, like he’s got all the answers in the world but no platform to spew them from. It’s obnoxious how much he clings to rabies, Ben thinks.   
  
“Alpha … _alpha_?” his brows wiggle while he bumps his closed fists together, “obviously he transferred some antibody or bacteria that seeks out the pack.”  
  
Ben sighs.   
  
The recon gives him literally nothing aside from a newfound realization that Hux apparently seeks Tico’s approval. And that Dameron is now doubling down on his initial theory. It’s frustrating in the worst way, and if he had been in a decent mood before it’s quickly soured.   
  
Maybe a pregnancy test _is_ something they should try specifically. It would explain her hormone levels and even her hysteria. Maybe even the pheromones. Actually, it could explain a lot of things.  
  
For some reason, though, it also annoys him to no end.  
  
It _may_ have something to do with the fact that his 0.01% was apparently making out with a bar full of people, but that’s not something he’d like to analyze in too much detail. It’s preposterous to feel jealous. He doesn’t own her. She’s not his.   
  
And … because he’s apparently pissed off every deity known to humanity, that is the precise moment his mother decides to waltz into their scrum room unannounced.  
  
“Benny,” she booms. Holdo in tight formation right behind, wearing another rendition of pencil skirt and modest heels. Mouth pressed in a firm line while she juggles a thick stack of folders. His mother, on the other hand, smiles without a care in the world. Her trusty Birkin dangles on her forearm casually while her body is obscured by a shawl that could double as a king sized blanket. The only thing he can make out with certainty is that she’s wearing a pair of palazzo pants. A very specific style choice she hasn’t let go since … oh, the 70s?  
  
“Ma,” he answers gruffly, eyes automatically falling to the floor, “what brings you here?”  
  
“I just wanted to see how we’re doing on that _unique_ case we picked up,” she saunters in, pulling out a chair to sit down heavily. Like she’d had a tough day. Like she’s just another fixture around the table, _not_ the business side of this medical institution.  
  
There’s silence in the room. No one willing to make a peep with the exception of Holdo who chooses that exact moment to clear her throat, “ma’am, we have that fundraiser meeting at the top of the hour and expense reports to review.”  
  
“I know,” Leia waves off the dean of medicine, and that, for some reason, makes him happier than a kid in a candy store, “but we’ve got time.”  
  
His mother reaches into the donut box, fishing out an over dusted jelly filled and placing it gingerly on a napkin.   
  
“So? Let’s hear it,” she turns to him while taking her first bite, “mmh, not bad. Not quite as good as your Bubbee’s sufganiyot. Where did you get these?”  
  
“Dunkin’.”  
  
“Oh,” she acts surprised then looks at the half eaten treat in her hand, “well I’m sure they’re kosher.”  
  
 _They are. And I know you don’t care.  
  
_ They’ve always been reform (and possibly even more progressive than that) but his mother likes to make a show of adherence. He’d like to remind her of her penchant for pepperoni on pizza but … that’s not wise. What _is_ suddenly very wise is…  
  
“Well,” he turns on his heel towards the door, “I’ve got some doctoring to do. These three will fill you in, I’m sure.”  
  
“Hah,” she tuts shaking her head, “I thought you didn’t like the doctoring part much.”  
  
“I don’t,” he throws over his shoulder as he clears the doorway, “but I like it a lot more than having to dumb down medicine for you, Ma.”  
  
 _Success_.  
  
Throwing jabs at his mother always feels like a small triumph. Even if he knows he’ll hear it later. Even if he’d done it like an utter coward and run away before he could face the music.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


He expected many things.   
  
He expected her to be asleep.   
  
If she was up, he expected her to roll her eyes. To look dishevelled. To snark him immediately which for some reason had him aroused as he cleared the corner to her room.  
  
What he walks into is none of those things.   
  
She’s perfectly clean, must have taken a shower at some point in the private bathroom, wearing a fresh gown and sitting on her bed with a bright smile. Likewise, Finn is sitting alongside her. The two giggling like schoolgirls over class notes in hushed tones.  
  
It _irks_ him that someone else is making her laugh. _Irks_ him that another man is sitting next to her so close. And _touching_ her. His hand resting easily on her shoulder as they’re scrolling through his phone.  
  
 _Stop it!  
  
_ “That’s our dog beebee,” Finn gushes swiping a few times, “he’s an opinionated little thing.”  
  
 _Our dog?  
  
_ Did he really miss the fact that clearly Dameron and Finn had been together long enough to have a dog? He should check the hospital files, compare addresses. That’s legal, right?  
  
She giggles sweetly which makes his hands ball into fists at his side and his hackles rise..   
  
_Where is this coming from?  
  
_ He knows he’s got a possessive streak. Always has, since he was a child. Probably something about being an only child according to his mother, though his parents had never done anything to remedy that situation. Thing is, he’s _never_ felt possessive over a human.   
  
It doesn’t help that the air in the room has somehow shifted to being sweeter than in the rest of the hospital in a way that makes his fingers itch. Did Finn open the window for her? Is there jasmine growing outside? And did Finn bring her vanilla cake?  
  
“Solo,” Finn beams at him, “glad you came to check on our patient. She’s doing great. _Demolished_ one of the cupcakes from Jess’ birthday lunch.”  
  
 _Aah so that explains the smell in the room.  
  
_ There’s another scent here, now that he’s wafted in enough. Beside the vanilla and jasmine combination, there’s a very faint smell of tuberose? Amberwood? Something that’s delicate yet inherently masculine.   
  
He wonders, for a split second, just what kind of asshole landscaping company his mother’s hired to maintain the grounds. Too many smells. Patients might be sensitive or worse yet, allergic. If _he_ can smell it, and he’s got a notoriously bad nose, then how do patients handle it?  
  
As much as he likes pushing buttons, and _oh_ he enjoys it plenty, this could be life or death. Fatal, even. Fragrant landscaping is just plain inconsiderate and rude. And he knows rude … he’s one of its founding members.  
  
“Glad to hear her appetite is healthy,” he grumbles.  
  
Finn has the good grace to know when it’s time to give him privacy to do what he does best. Even if he’s not even really sure precisely _why_ he’s here.  
  
“Alright peanut,” Finn pats her leg, “I’ll check in on you later. Be good to Solo here. He’s rough around the edges but I know he’s soft on the inside. I just know it.”  
  
 _Peanut?  
  
_ Ben scowls as Finn passes him on the way out.  
  
“I see you’ve graduated from mauling the staff to flirting, _peanut,_ ” he grits through his teeth, surprised at the rumbling tone of his voice.  
  
 _Reel it in Ben, this is not how this is supposed to go.  
  
_ “And there I was going to thank you for the cold rolls,” she sighs, throwing herself back on the bed. She’s prettier now that she’s clean. Her hair has a renewed bounce and her skin a healthy glow. He can see the freckles across the bridge of her nose better in the daylight too.  
  
“Was that you thanking your nurse for the cupcake?”  
  
“Ha,” she titters, “didn’t take you for the jealous type. Joke’s on you though, Solo. He’s dating your neurologist.”  
  
He’s dumbfounded. He didn’t think it was jealousy but …  
  
“Don’t see how it matters to you anyway,” she bites with a dry smile. There’s something both playful and vindictive in her tone. It rankles him. Infuriates him because doesn’t she realize she’s _his_?  
  
 _Where the fuck did_ that _come from? Oh God it’s not stopping...  
  
_ “Well, I don’t mean to assume but … you seem to have a penchant for tongue wrestling everyone.”  
  
Yep, that’s definitely an angry tone. Why does it even matter? And why can’t he control himself? Why is he even feeling angry? Sure, okay … she’s the 0.01% he’s actually drawn to but … _you’ve got better control than that, Solo. Get your shit together.  
  
_ “First of all, I can snog whoever I want,” she turns to him indignantly, “Secondly, you can assume all you want but you’re only making an ass out of yourself. _I_ , for one, did _no_ such thing.”  
  
He grinds his jaw from side to side. Trying to quell the flames licking up his spine and control the rage he can’t pin the source of.  
  
The little cup he’s got in his pocket finds its way into his hand. Out of his hand to be tossed into her lap. “Fill that.”  
  
“With what?”  
  
“Urine.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Pregnancy test,” he delivers cooly. Another spike of possessiveness coursing through him.  
  
 _For fucks sake Ben, get your shit together.  
  
_ He needs to get a cup of coffee and a snack. His blood sugar must be low. Low enough to start getting him agitated. And that’s not his style. Losing control of his emotions is as big a faux pas in the Ben Solo handbook as losing control of a conversation.  
  
She starts to laugh, holding the little cup in her hand as if this is some kind of sick joke. “You … there’s _no fucking way_. I haven’t dated in _years_.”  
  
“Well your lab results indicate that pregnancy might be on the table.”  
  
“That’s quite literally impossible,” she retorts indignantly.  
  
“Well it’s either that or you’re psychotic. Tell me, does God talk to you?”  
  
She releases a long and loud huff through her nose. Eyes him wearily before her eyes drift down to the cup cradled in her lap.  
  
“I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling you it’s not possible,” she says quietly, “w-why would you even think that?”  
  
He sighs. How does he broach this subject with someone who sets his emotions off as easily as flipping a light switch? He feels like a live wire around her. Raw and exposed, ready to spark.   
  
“You have these moments of hallucinations where you keep asking for ‘alpha’,” he accentuates with air quotes and starts walking towards her, tone softer, anger replaced by concern, “I don’t know what it means, but it is my professional opinion that those hallucinations correspond with … overt sexual behaviours.”  
  
She seems to consider his words for a moment as he comes to stand beside her bed. Brows furrowed and shoulders hunched. “You think I had … h-have I ever done that to you?”  
  
The beseeching look she gives him melts him. Utterly liquefies him into a puddle of mush and banishes any remnants of anger within. The inner voice in his head purrs to _comfort_ her, to give her hope. Show her there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.. He steps in even closer, less than a foot of distance between their torsos now. “You did,” he admits matter of factly.  
  
“Did … did we … _do_ anything?”  
  
“No,” he murmurs, much softer than he’d think he’s capable of, “and there’s nothing of the sort on your previous charts either. But it’s to make sure. To rule it out as a possibility.”  
  
A single tear rolls down her cheek. Her hands nervously fiddle with the cup she might be clutching a little too tightly. An admission teetering on the edge until...  
  
“I … I have this voice in my head,” she starts, fixing him with her big shiny doe eyes, “It’s quiet when I’m like this but … other times it … it gets loud. _Really_ loud. And insistent. The voice … she … it sounds like me. But it’s not me. I know it’s not. Because she says things that don’t make sense. Things about pups and nests. About finding Alpha. I don’t even understand. And the louder she gets the less I remember. Every time I wake up someone tells me I’ve … I’ve _done_ something and I remember none of it but it’s always right after she screams loudest.”  
  
Unbidden his hand reaches out and cups her cheek. His thumb catching an errant tear on its way down. To wipe it off her pretty cheek. “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”  
  
 _ **Good. Comfort her.**  
  
_ _What the hell am I doing?!  
  
_ Her eyes drift up to his. They’re so sad. Like all the bravado she’s welded around herself, all the sarcasm and humour she’s used as armour is chipping off right before his eyes. It’s striking, seeing her come apart like this. Seeing strength fade and give way to hopelessness. “Doctors keep telling me that. That they’ll figure it out. That they’ll help me. Keep telling me they _know_ me,” she sniffles, “no one does.”  
  
He strokes her cheek softly. Gentler than he’s ever known himself to be. It’s absurd how many emotions are swirling in his mind and how little he cares to unpack them. What really matters right now is for him to let her know she’s not alone. To take away some of this fear, this pain she carries.  
  
“But I do, Rey,” he whispers, “you’re _not_ alone.”  
  
Her lashes flutter shut. Kissing the tops of her tear stained cheeks while she takes a deep cleansing breath. He’s seen this before, knows how to do it himself thanks to the therapist his mother insisted he see for his ‘control’ issues.   
  
He watches her take deep pulls, hold them, release them. With each consecutive breath a little more of the worry on her face dissipates. Her shoulders slump as tension releases. All the while her cheek is firmly pressed into his hand like she’s afraid he’d take her source of comfort away.  
  
Not that he’d planned on pulling away.  
  
“Neither are you,” she murmurs breathlessly.  
  
They’re just words. He knows this. Yet somehow these 3 little words had managed to pierce through his armour. Like they’re the exact medicine he’d needed to heal a wound he didn’t even know he had.   
  
It releases something inside him. Like a knot coming unravelled. Worn and warped strings from years of tight entwinement being pried loose from where they’ve crusted and practically fused together.   
  
The way her armour had begun falling away his does too, at the utterance of 3 simple words. He feels so … he just _feels_. Feels belonging and acceptance. Understanding and gratitude. He feels human, for once. And he’s utterly thankful for it.  
  
He should do something to ease her stress. Make her more comfortable. Her distress is palpable. It even cuts through the sweet air in the room, like something acrid and sour. Like he can _smell_ her emotions.  
  
“How do you like your new accommodations?” His thumb ghosts over the apple of her cheek once more before he reluctantly draws his hand back to his side.  
  
She opens her eyes, a little skeptical at first, “was this you?”  
  
He can’t help the crooked smile beginning to bloom on his face, “I’m not much of a brag.”  
  
“Well,” she wipes her face with the heels of her hands, “it’s certainly better and the window is a nice touch. It’s much bigger, too. _So_ much more space for activities.”  
  
And, _oh_ his precious Rey.   
  
Where the _fuck_ is this coming from?   
  
His inner monologue does many things. It conjures comebacks long after the opportune moment has passed. It draws unlikely connections and delivers perfect diagnoses in record time. It admonishes him when he’s being too soft and reminds him when the occasion is ripe for a snide jab. It does _not_ do things like call people precious. Is it possible that …  
  
“It’s making my head spin,” she continues with a wobbly grin.  
  
She’s doing that thing again, quoting movies no one else seems to understand. This time, she’s doing it to lighten the mood.  
  
He can’t help himself, really. Playing along is like throwing his red ball around. Necessary control. “Like aerobics?”  
  
“Exactly,” she smiles wholesomely, “and that TV. It’s so big. Bet I could watch Cops in crystal clear definition.”  
  
“You could,” he steps back to fiddle with a box of gloves, knowing full well that he’s going to hate himself for what he’s about to do, “but that doesn’t start till 4:00.”  
  
“Oh, well then I suppose I could go do some karate in the garage. Or … masturbate to my favourite non-pornographic magazine.”  
  
“Good Housekeeping?” he muses as he pulls out a glove, then puts it back thinking better of it. Yesterday it was direct skin contact and it won’t hurt to try again, right? Test his theory?  
  
She’s laughing lightly. A smile plastered to her face that crinkles her eyes and tugs at his heart strings. “Usually people stare at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. You wouldn't _believe_ how many people don’t know Step Brothers.”  
  
“I say we take the warning label off _everything_ ,” he muses, “let Darwinism take care of our problem.”  
  
“I feel like the population would dwindle down to nothing.”  
  
“Now wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” he gasps with mock concern.  
  
He sits beside her hip, body leaning towards her as he juts his chin towards her neck. He shouldn’t do this. He should wait for the urine test to confirm or negate a pregnancy. When that result rolls in he could try manipulating her lacerations and observing more closely. He could even walk the test down to the lab himself and have it done on the spot.  
  
But he’s a selfish bastard and even if he feels a connection to her, he feels even more determined to find a diagnosis because that’s just his molecular structure. The predisposition of a stubborn mule written plainly in the language of his DNA.  
  
She nods in understanding, still fiddling with the little cup.   
  
“Do you still need me to pee in this?”  
  
“Yeah-” he murmurs, hand gently pushing her clean hair behind her back and off her shoulder. Aware of their proximity and the goosebumps across her skin where he’s touched her. There’s an unnatural pull to her here. It’s stronger than yesterday. Something ancient that feels like it’s awakening inside him. A little voice that whispers _closer_ and _mine_ , “-in a minute.”  
  
He hates himself right now. Hates that he’s doing this. But it’s for science. It’s for a diagnosis. It’s for _her_.  
  
Swallowing thickly, he presses his thumb against the smooth skin of the lesion on her neck. And sure enough, her eyes flutter closed and she releases a small moan. He does it again to elicit the same reaction. Ignores the way his own skin feels like it’s heating. The way his own hair stands on end just from the touch.  
  
“Look at me,” he commands.  
  
Her eyes snap open. Pupils dilated but her pretty hazel irises still intact. He presses against the lesion again, watching her intently. Watching her eyes grow wide when he presses, her lips part to suck in a breath but keeping her gaze firmly on him.  
  
 _ **Good girl.**  
  
_ _Wait, what?_   
  
Why is part of him tickled pink by her response? She not only responded to him but heeded the request. Ironically enough he’d never heard that side of himself. Never heard himself take on such a commanding tone but it worked. It made him feel powerful in ways he didn’t even know he could.   
  
He should try that again...  
  
“F-feels good,” she manages to stutter, eyes still locked on his. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge. Zoned into him and only him.   
  
She’s putty beneath his hand.  
  
For some inexplicable reason, he feels his own arousal spiking.   
  
_It’s for science_ , he repeats to himself when that _other_ little voice goads him to touch the _larger_ patch. It’s not because he’s letting that foreign voice guide his actions. Nor that it’s started chanting _mine mine mine._ It’s to test a theory. It’s purely scientific. _Medicinal.  
  
_ His hand trails lower to hover over her trapezius where the largest patch lies.   
  
With an apologetic tilt to his brows, he fixates on her eyes and presses. Watches as her pupils dilate fully. Swallow the remainder of her irises and her lips part. Completely ignoring the fact that he’s started salivating.  
  
He already knows what she’ll say. Knows what he needs to do, so he reaches for the IV drip and turns on the lorazepam.  
  
“Alpha?”  
  
“Shhh,” he soothes, hand coming back to stroke her cheek, “sleep little one.”  
  
What in the actual fuck. _Those aren’t his words.  
  
_ He stays there with her, stroking her cheek and maintaining eye contact. Their locked gazes keep her entranced until her eyes flutter closed and her body sags back into the bed.  
  
He hates himself. _Hates_ _himself_. But it’s confirmation.  
  
As he walks out of the room with a heavy heart he’s certain of 3 things and has already formulated a plan to set into action.  
  
 _1\. Her lymph nodes and/or those lesions are directly responsible for her symptoms, but there might be a neurological component he’d been too stubborn to see.  
  
_ He calls Hux’s phone as he makes his way out of the hospital’s front doors and towards his house. Renewed purpose coursing through his veins as he strides resolutely.  
  
“Hux?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Get Dameron to put in a request for an MRI on her head, specifically her lymph nodes but I want her brain scanned too for tumors or abnormalities that could point to schizophrenia. I also need you to schedule an Op for tomorrow. We’re going to biopsy the lesions. There’s something beneath them and I’m not sure we should wait until the scan to find out. Holdo will probably push back but I know you can secure an op. And make it late. I’m heading to Alaska on the first flight out.”  
  
 _2\. He needs to go talk to the wolf rehab himself. These idiots obviously didn’t follow through and left a lot of information on the table.  
  
_ “You’re going to Alaska?”  
  
“Did I stutter?”  
  
“Didn’t,” Hux begins _actually_ stuttering, “didn’t we get enough?”  
  
“Would I be going if you did?”  
  
Hux sighs heavily on the line, “I guess not, no. Are you gonna…”  
  
 _Jesus Christ this soft fuck.  
  
_ “I’m not going to fire you, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”  
  
“Oh,” there’s relief in his tone.  
  
“I’m a man of principle, Hux. Besides, you have great hair.”  
  
“I do?”  
  
“Don’t push it.”  
  
"But ... you said I had..."

He sighs heavily, "I was being facetious you imbecile. I don't keep you around for good hair. I keep you around because you're skilled with the scalpel."  
  
“R-right then," a stutter, "I’ll, uh, I'll book the OR. Dameron will secure a scan. Anything else?”  
  
 _Is this the perfect opportunity?  
  
_ “Snog Tico for me, will you?”  
  
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just hangs up. Inner demon cackling uncontrollably, wiggling his bony fingers like Mr. Burns. _Eeeeexcellent.  
  
_ He pulls up Expedia, finding the first flight out of Coruscant heading to Anchorage. He’s going to wing it, but it’ll be worth it to get the answers he seeks.  
  
She’s looking for someone, and the rehab center might know just who. An alpha. No … not an alpha. Her alpha. The wolf.  
  
 _3\. He’s falling..._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh you're going to Alaska Dr. Solo? Waggles eyebrows...
> 
> So ... any designation predictions so far? 
> 
> PSA: I suppose this is a good time for a gentle reminder that I am _not_ a medical professional. Everything I'm including is just thoroughly researched. The concept is based in real medicine but some of it may get twisted to fit into the end goal (namely the omegaverse). So just keep in mind you're reading fiction, k? Good chat.
> 
> WTF is this stuff?  
> [RT-PCR Rabies Testing](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3410207/)  
> [FAT (Flourescent Antibody Test) for Rabies](https://www.who.int/rabies/about/home_diagnosis/en/)  
> [ImmunoCAP (or RAST) Allergy Testing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radioallergosorbent_test)  
> [AND (or 16-androstadien-3-one)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Androstadienone)  
> [Estratetraenol](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Estratetraenol)  
> [hCG (Human Chorionic Gonadotropin)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_chorionic_gonadotropin)  
> [ECG (electrocardiogram)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electrocardiography)  
> [SAD (seasonal affective disorder)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder)  
> [Sufganiyot](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufganiyah)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As they turn in her roundabout to pull up flush with the porch, the cabbie congratulates him on landing during a lull in a last ditch attempt to make conversation. “We’ve had unseasonably warm weather but it never lasts,” he says, “It’ll probably dump another few feet ‘fore May.”_
> 
> _“Are you a meteorologist?” Ben can’t help himself. This goon has grated his last nerve for the better part of the past half hour and he’s been itching to throw out some snark._
> 
> _“Nah. Just know the weather ‘s all.”_
> 
> _“Oh, well … that must make you an expert.”_
> 
> _The cabbie chuckles as he stops the meter. “What about you?”_
> 
> _“What about me?”_
> 
> _“What do you do, sir?” He seems to have latched onto Ben’s sarcastic response. It wasn’t meant to be conversational but this guy is clearly oblivious. Starved for the sound of another voice._
> 
> _“Well, I’m a doctor. But I dabble in finance. Would you like my opinion on investing?”_
> 
> _“Uh…”_
> 
> _“Yeah,” he drawls mockingly, “thought so.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took a hot minute, huh? 
> 
> Bigups to [McDrogo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McDrogo/pseuds/McDrogo) for reading/editing/e-smacking me on this chapter. I apparently like to dip into angst and this chapter happened to be riddled with it. There's going to be a bit of self-reflection on Ben's part here, so a lot less House and a little more WTF is going on. But it serves a purpose ... you'll see.
> 
> Now, without further ado, ***drum roll please*** I give you, Dr. Solo visits Anchorage.

Anchorage is … _not_ what he’d expected.  
  
The airport is clean, modern even. Over polished epoxy floors and finely crafted sculptures of polar bears and moose ( _mooses, meese?_ ) dot the arrivals gate as he exits. It’s blessedly devoid of humans.   
  
He also didn’t expect to walk out of the terminal and onto … well, a road?  
  
He’s not sure what he expected, really. Maybe sleighs and people on snowshoes, or offroad all-wheel driving trucks with chained tires. Thick tracks in hard packed snow the only semblance of a route. He certainly _expected_ snow, but, apparently, this impromptu self-recon is turning out to be educational in more ways than one.  
  
He’s learning rather quickly how average, how … mediocre … Anchorage is. Learning things like that you take a _regular_ plane instead of those rickety water planes he’s seen on TV when characters fly into the wilderness. Or that there are real multi-lane paved (and exceptionally maintained) roads. Or that it’s an _actual_ city, not a settlement of log cabins. Or that there’s a Costco - lights gleaming in the distance like a beacon of comfort.  
  
He reminds himself that he’s lived a very sheltered city life and until recently had no interest in anything to do with the north. So he admonishes himself for being close minded as he blows into his hands to warm them against the cool air.  
  
The giant clock outside of the terminal reads 11:08 PM. The road by the arrivals gate is relatively empty save for a procession of cabs and a few people milling about smoking with their luggage in tow. There’s a couple making out a little too roughly in the far corner, the man’s hips canting forward at an even but recognizable rhythm, so he naturally averts his eyes.   
  
_That’s … unnecessarily lewd, but when the mood strikes..._   
  
He knows he’ll need to book a hotel but he’s laser focused on his first destination - decidedly _not_ the hotel. Like a moth drawn to his flame, all housekeeping items fall by the wayside in favour of focusing on the one thing he’s itching to do. There’s no use doing the sensible thing and calling the hotel. Not when he’s practically jumping out of his skin to get to her house.  
  
He can’t imagine the Sheraton being fully booked anyway. It’s Anchorage for fucks sake. If the terminal is any indication, the hotel will be just as dead so he’ll take his time. Go see her place and double check Tico’s work first. If he goes to satisfy his own perverted curiosities, his own unnatural need to sniff around, no one needs to know.   
  
Only once he’s gleaned whatever knowledge he can will he go to the hotel. From there he’ll have a good night’s rest, a decent breakfast, then head to the rehab center first thing tomorrow and ask the _right_ questions.  
  
 _Fucking idiots. They’re told the wolf who bit her is an alpha, possibly_ the _alpha and they don’t dig deeper?  
  
_ He hops into a cab. The first one in line to avoid any unnecessary waiting.  
  
The driver navigates onto the freeway smoothly after he’s given the address, attempting to make small talk every few minutes. Something that annoys the shit out of Ben. He already has to listen to ‘educated’ physicians prattle all day, the last thing he needs is this guy blathering.  
  
 _Unless you’ve magically found a way to reverse dementia, assume your company will bore me to bits and shut up.  
  
_ Ben fiddles with the keyring he’d taken from her belongings at the hospital the entire time. Taking it out of his overnight bag to roll in his hand like dice before setting it back into the compartment. Over and over and over as the lights of the city thin out and they drive into the tranquil darkness of the suburbs.   
  
_It’s for medicine_ , he reminds himself. Besides, she’s fast asleep with no diagnosis. She’ll never know he’d taken them. So he plays with her keys while he continues to ignore the cab driver’s efforts to converse.  
  
“I’ll tell ya, Susitna River in the spring makes for some of the best fishing in yer life. You like fishin’?”  
  
 _Shut up already. This guy’s a right yenta!  
  
_ He fixes his gaze out the window. Watches the suburbs whizz by. Resolved to tune out the man’s questions.  
  
She lives in a quiet neighbourhood outside of the city. On the _outskirts_ of the suburb, if the sparsity of driveways is anything to go by. A tiny bungalow with a high pitched roof and an attached garage buried down a deep driveway, tucked between a dense assemblage of trees.   
  
“Yer awful quiet back there, sir,” the cab driver eyes him carefully, probably thinking he’s being sketchy. If it wasn’t his _job_ to just _drive_ and not ask any fucking questions, he might agree. Sure, a random quiet dude shows up at almost midnight and gives the address of a house with no lights on then proceeds to remain quiet in the backseat.   
  
Ben pulls out the keys and jingles them as obviously as possible without making eye contact. A little _‘fuck your opinion, this is my house'_ in light of his obnoxious questioning.   
  
As they turn in her roundabout to pull up flush with the porch, the cabbie congratulates him on landing during a lull in a last ditch attempt to make conversation. “We’ve had unseasonably warm weather but it never lasts,” he says, “It’ll probably dump another few feet ‘fore May.”  
  
“Are you a meteorologist?” Ben can’t help himself. This goon has grated his last nerve for the better part of the past half hour and he’s been itching to throw out some snark.  
  
“Nah. Just know the weather ‘s all.”  
  
“Oh, well … that must make you an expert.”  
  
The cabbie chuckles as he stops the meter. “What about you?”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“What do you do, sir?” He seems to have latched onto Ben’s sarcastic response. It wasn’t meant to be conversational but this guy is clearly oblivious. Starved for the sound of another voice.  
  
“Well, I’m a doctor. But I dabble in finance. Would you like my opinion on investing?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Yeah,” he drawls mockingly, “thought so.”  
  
He pays the man an amount that almost makes his eyes bug out of his head then closes the cab door behind him.   
  
Peace, _finally_.  
  
 _Should have waited the extra 10 minutes and ordered an Uber.  
  
_ At least those guys shut up in exchange for a 5 star rating. Ha. He doesn’t give 5 stars. Probably why he’s got a not-so-great rating himself. 4 is fine, right? It’s smack dab in the center. Not excellent but he’s a doctor, not a professional passenger for fucks sake.  
  
Wanna see excellence? Look at his diagnostics record. A whopping 100% success rate. Want more? Check his infectious diseases specialty he tacked on because standard med school wasn’t challenging enough.  
  
There’s an unnatural silence now that the cab’s gone and he’s standing on her porch in the dark. Landscape illuminated by nothing but a sliver of moonlight. Nothing but the sound of the wind and its rustling the endless evergreens surrounding her abode. He’s never been surrounded by this much silence. It’s almost deafening.  
  
It’s also comforting. Stroking some deep seated part of himself that wants to be wild. Wants to take off at a sprint and run through the wilderness like a feral animal.  
  
 _It’s because you’ve been stuck in confined spaces with yapping idiots for the last 6 hours_.   
  
God if he hears another word uttered about ‘the best chicken parm recipe’ or ‘how to get my 6 year old to eat his veggies’ he’s going to stab himself in the ear. With a rusty knife. Repeatedly.  
  
To add insult to injury, he’s been bogged down by scents of various calibre. From cloying to pleasant, sour to bitter. Stenches that make him want to singe his nostrils to stop the olfactory assault.   
  
He reasons that he’s finally exited the city’s unwavering smog and lack of greenery that has dampened his spirits. So much so that the first real taste of cold, fresh air awakens the animal inside.  
  
He wishes it was still daylight. Wishes he could see the outside of her house which right now looks to be a saturated shade of emerald green. Aluminum siding by the looks of it under the moonlight.  
  
Using his phone’s flashlight, he pulls the keyring out of his pocket, eyeing it for the umpteenth time tonight. Two standard keys and one car key to a Toyota (that’s probably in the garage) clink loudly in the quiet night. An overly large dangling charm that he’s only now realizing is the house from Up is tangled among the keys. A little resin house tethered to a profusion of little pearlized baubles 2 inches long.   
  
He’s been playing with, and staring at, the stolen keyring for the better part of his flight. Emotions teetering from utter disgust with himself to staunch resolve. From affection to anger.   
  
There was, however, something comforting about holding them. Like there were traces of _her_ on the keys and _that_ soothed his frazzled nerves. He’d even taken to sniffing it just to pick up the lingering scent of _her_. An act he’s not yet willing to analyze too closely, because … well, because there’s nothing to analyze. It smells nice. End of story.  
  
Her decorative charm makes wrangling with the keys difficult, the little baubles getting caught in the ring and catching the keys in unusable positions. But he eventually manages to shake them free, trying one then the other until the right key slots in and turns. Swinging the door open while his fingers tingle from the cold.  
  
He should have brought a real jacket. He’s not sure why he thought his Lululemon spring coat would be enough. It’s fucking Alaska, not California. He should have anticipated a thin bomber would do practically nothing against the cold here. The effects of which he’s feeling as he steps over her threshold. Fingers practically numb and breath fogging in his wake.   
  
His hand grazes the wall in search of a light switch, flipping as soon as he finds it. The moment the door closes, the moment the house is awash in the dim yellowing light, his heart swells immeasurably and he feels himself blanketed in a calming warmth.   
  
It smells sweet in here. Almost as sweet as her hospital room but more subdued. Like the space has been steeped in her jasmine and vanilla perfume but is beginning to fade.  
  
Tiny doesn’t begin to encompass the home he’s standing in. It’s practically a small vacation cabin. The kitchen and living room are combined into a main living area which is separated from the entrance by a single step up and a half wall against which she’s placed a worn leatherette ottoman. A pair of navy mittens lays on the ottoman alongside what looks to be a hand knitted red scarf. Slippers lined up perfectly on one side of the ottoman, a shoe tray on the other with a pair of heavy boots.   
  
A hand carved, solid wood bowl sits empty on the half wall, awaiting the keys which he gingerly deposits inside. A few choice takeout flyers peek out from underneath.   
  
There's a heavy navy coloured Canada Goose jacket hanging on deer antler shaped hooks on the adjacent wall next to another door. One he assumes goes to the garage.   
  
Beyond the half wall, the kitchen and living room run parallel on either side of the space. The living room (on the right) made up of a beige plaid loveseat, complete with a fold up TV tray leaning against the wall and a basket of yarn. A small flat screen TV across from it flush against the half wall on a low console. A woodburning stove stands darkly behind it all, nestled against a red brick wall. Its chimney extends upwards into a loft peeking between wooden bannisters, then further through the ceiling.  
  
The kitchen itself takes up the entirety of the left wall with a small counter that juts out to fit two barstools. It’s the only eating surface in sight. Her appliances are a mish-mash. Whatever was on sale, it seems. A black fridge, white stove, chrome dishwasher. But they’re new and that’s all that matters.  
  
 _When the hell did it_ start _mattering?  
  
_ His legs carry him into her space, fingers tracing over the surfaces of her belongings. A wolf printed fleece blanket slung over the top of her loveseat. An open book left with its binding cracked open face down on the breakfast bar. A small pile of dry logs for the stove alongside the brick wall.  
  
He opens the fridge to see Tico’s assessment was correct. The rainbow of vegetables is in various states of distress. Tomatoes in the crisper growing tufts of mold, celery limply draped over a few potatoes that have sprouted innumerable eyes.   
  
Worst of all, it fucking stinks to high heaven. It smells like … ‘a turd covered in burnt hair. A used diaper filled with indian food’, his brain supplies.  
  
 _Yick_.  
  
He gags as he starts rummaging under her sink and grabs a biodegradable garbage bag. Begins to collect and toss the withered produce in her fridge while holding his breath because he’s one whiff away from hurling.   
  
He cleans the inside of her fridge like he plans on living there. Like it’s his _own_ fridge.   
  
When it’s all said and done, when he’s finally able to take a breath without needing to hurl, he brings the bag into the garage, eyeing her white Toyota 4runner with glee. He’d expected her to drive a beater based on the haphazardly decorated interior of her home and her zero-fucks-given attitude. Instead he finds a heavy duty, dependable SUV that looks like it could survive the apocalypse. It’s good, reliable, _safe.  
  
_ _**It’s a safe mode of transportation for our precious ma-**  
  
_ _Nope_! _  
  
_ Maybe he’ll borrow that until tomorrow. Fill up her tank before he returns it and calls an Uber. The cab was _way_ too overpriced. Besides, it’ll buy him peace. If every cabbie in Anchorage is as conversation starved as the one he’d just dealt with … he’ll pay surge pricing for silence in a heartbeat and consider it a worthy investment. Borrowing her car is _kind_ of like paying for Uber, he reasons. Except he won’t get pestered to review his driver at the end.  
  
Back in her kitchen he quickly Googles the nearest grocery store that offers delivery. Adding a variety of fresh veggies and basic pantry items into his cart before accepting the $9.95 delivery charge and choosing a 6:00 AM drop off. Something deep inside him purrs with contentment knowing he’s taking care of her. Of _them_.  
  
He ignores the absurdities his subconscious mutters resolutely, continuing deeper into her home.   
  
_Note to self: eat something. You’re starting to hear things.  
  
_ Beyond the main living area is a short hall with a small winding staircase, a bathroom across from it that shares a wall with the kitchen, and further still a little study nook that takes up the back of the house. A sunny yellow lounge chair with a grey boucle blanket in front of a bookshelf that lines the width of the space sits on the left. A plain wooden desk with a closed laptop and a SAD light on the left end. A distressed kitchen chair tucked underneath it.  
  
Like the grade A creep he is, he runs his fingers over her book collection. Mentally noting the titles. Rows on rows of wildlife biology texts. Books on wolves. Pack dynamics. A few Cesar Millan, a few classics. Just like Tico said, nothing that would indicate she’s trying to live off grid and consume questionable foods.  
  
His feet carry him up the stairs. A tight and dizzying feat for someone of his size. The staircase is steep and narrow, made of wrought iron with no risers.  
  
In the loft he finds a queen sized bed with no headboard. Two wooden nightstands flanking the bed with a tiffany style lamp resting atop each. On the nightstand closest to the bannister, there’s a thick stack of papers weighed down by a mug stamped with the rehab’s logo. Upon closer inspection, they’re research papers, ‘Alpha & Omega: New Wolf Mating and Coupling Dynamics’. Her name under the title.  
  
Her bedsheets are soft flannel, beige plaid like her loveseat. A heavy paisley quilt draped haphazardly over the foot of the bed to keep her warm on cold nights. Beside the chimney stack there’s an antique looking dresser with an empty laundry hamper leaning limply at its side. The dresser is half empty upon closer inspection, only a few drawers taken up with even fewer clothing items. Rehab logos on most of the t-shirts and button downs. A few pairs of jeans and a dozen rolls of thermal leggings. Thick woolen socks, modest underwear and plain jersey bralettes. One drawer is stuffed to the brim with knitted sweaters and thermal henleys.   
  
That’s it. Full stop. Half the dresser is practically empty. Like someone used to live with her.   
  
The thought creeps in unbidden and rims his vision in fire. The words _mine mine mine_ chanting in his head. He has an incredible urge to go get his overnight bag. To start dumping out its contents in the empty drawers and to rub himself against every soft surface of her little house.  
  
Fucking hell, fresh air is turning him psychotic.  
  
That’s _not_ why he’s here.  
  
He heads back downstairs more stubborn than ever to analyze her bathroom, suppressing the animalistic voice in his head that’s begun to grow louder. He repeats to himself it’s for diagnostics. To double check Tico’s observation and make note of any questionable ingredients in her bathroom products.   
  
Deep down, he’s loathed to admit he’s actually on a mission to find clues of a significant other, even if she’d insisted there was none. Another _person_ she’d shared this space with. Shared her _bed_ with. He doesn’t even fully understand why he’s suddenly zoned into that task. Only that, try as he might, it’s lodged itself in his brain like a nervous tick.  
  
There’s nothing of interest in her bathroom. Cetaphil face wash and daily moisturizer. Neutrogena broad spectrum sunscreen. A tub of vaseline. Burt’s Bees fluoride-free toothpaste sits inside a glass tumbler next to a (single) bamboo toothbrush. In her bathtub he finds two tin containers he opens to reveal little scented pucks. Those must be the shampoo and conditioner bars Tico mentioned. They smell good, but not as good as her sweet perfume. There’s a Dove sensitive bar in a soap dish resting in the corner.   
  
Under the sink he finds lavender essential oil and epsom salts. The ingredient list raising no alarm on either. But he does imagine soaking in the claw footed tub with her. It’s big enough. They could both fit. He could sit behind her and gently rub his hands up and down her body, washing her. Taking _care_ of her...  
  
 _Where the fuck is this coming from?  
  
_ He pulls out the drawer to inspect further. For makeup she has a small pink teardrop sponge, a tube that says Mascara, and a skin toned tube that apparently is a concoction called concealer? There’s a small black bullet that, upon closer inspection, is a red lipstick. Ruby woo, the bottom says. MAC, the cap emphasizes.   
  
Ironically, he finds no trace of a perfume bottle near her cosmetics nor anywhere in her bathroom.  
  
 _She must keep it in her purse.  
  
_ He sighs and turns the tap on, waiting for the water to warm before he squirts a foamy dollop of her ‘black cherry merlot’ scented hand wash and scrubs thoroughly. It’s a nice scent, like the pucks. Not overly sweet nor overly floral. Just nice.  
  
 _ **But not as nice as our ma-**  
  
_ _Nope!_  
  
Rose was right, there’s nothing of concern here. At least he’s happy she didn’t lie about a significant other.  
  
Content with his discoveries, he trudges back to the front door to toe off his shoes and remove his jacket. To retrieve his phone and overnight before plopping himself down on her loveseat.   
  
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s started to rub her wolf printed blanket against his neck. That he’s closed his eyes and has given himself over to some basal urge to leave a trace of himself on it. To mark it.  
  
 _What the hell!  
  
_ It’s because it’s soft, he reasons. But there’s something deep inside himself that he can feel vibrating. Like a low purr of contentment.  
  
Annoyed with his own impulses, he straightens, pulls up the hotel’s phone number on his phone and taps dial with a little more force than necessary. If he’s going to succumb to exhaustion, which he’s _clearly_ on the brink of, he’s going to do it in a hotel room damn it.  
  
At least so he thinks...  
  
How was he supposed to know there was a conference that booked up the entire city? There wasn’t one _yesterday_ when Hux and Tico stayed at the hotel. What kind of fucking conference is WFIW anyway? The helpful clerk explains it’s for western forest insect work which meant diddly squat to him but he accepted it graciously enough.  
  
Does he curse through his teeth after he hangs up? Fuck yes.  
  
He supposes that since he’ll be borrowing her car and he’s already done her groceries, he might as well stay the night. No one will know. Besides, he’s out of pocket for this trip. Paid for it all by himself.   
  
Of course he’ll drop the invoices on Holdo’s desk and get chewed out for them, but he’ll deal with that when the time comes. At least, for now, he’ll save a few bucks and spend the night the way _she_ does.  
  
There’s a voice inside, the same one that purred moments ago. The same one that chants completely inappropriate things and eggs on his more primal urges. The one that sounds like his subconscious, that’s squealing with delight. It’s absolutely _preening_ right now.   
  
It _likes_ that they’re spending the night at her house. Tells him to mark it. Leave his scent. Calls her his mate.   
  
Its obnoxious jabbering annoys him to no end and he shakes his head as though that’ll dislodge the voice. This ... _it,_ that thinks they’re a _they_.  
  
Disgruntled, he fishes for a bag of trailmix he picked up at the Coruscant airport and a bottle of Ensure he’d packed in a stroke of genius. That’ll be his dinner. He’ll have something more substantial in the morning, but for now, it’s balanced enough and will tide him over.  
  
Whatever synapses are misfiring in his head will be quelled with sustenance, a shower, and some good sleep.  
  
He makes quick work of his snack-turned-dinner, focusing on chewing and swallowing hard enough that he’s able to quiet his overactive subconscious from chanting inappropriate things. He must be utterly exhausted to be hearing things to this degree.   
  
What he needs to do next, is wash the airplane stink off his body and get a good night’s rest. So he does that.  
  
If he takes himself in hand after he showers and dries off using a towel which carries her scent, that’s his shame to bear. A primal need so strong he can’t fight it. It’s a ridiculous urge but he _throbs_ the instant he’s dry and can’t think without release.  
  
If he repeats the action once he’s snuggled up under her sheets, well … again. His shame.  
  
He’s so pleased, so utterly relaxed in his tired haze that he doesn’t even notice he’s rolling around in her sheets. That he’s purposely covering every square inch of it with himself before sliding over to a new spot to nestle.   
  
When he falls asleep, it’s with that content rumble in his chest and surrounded by her smell.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


_Knock knock knock.  
  
_ He’s hot. Unnaturally so. Is he running a fever?  
  
Where is he?  
  
 _Knock knock.  
  
_ What is that sound?  
  
 _Ping_.  
  
What the fuck?  
  
He reaches for his phone to see a notification. Grocery delivery arrived.  
  
 _Shit.  
  
_ Darting out of the bed, he has the wherewithal to wrap the (very abused, still damp and slightly crusty) towel around his bare hips as he skids down the stairs bleary eyed. He trips halfway and skates down the remainder awkwardly clutching the railing and knocking his freakishly large toes against the iron steps.   
  
_Why does she live in a fucking shoebox?!  
  
_ Is he glad the delivery person dropped off the box and left? Yes. Does he open one of the two cartons of cashew milk he ordered? Yes. Does he eat her cereal in her frigid kitchen wearing nothing but the towel? Yes.  
  
Does he take a cold shower again to cool off and jerk himself hastily for yet another dose of relief? _None of your business.  
  
_ After a bit of fiddling with her garage door (she doesn’t have an automatic opener and he’s _very_ tempted to see if someone can install one in the next few hours) he pulls out of her driveway and onto the road. Having input the rehab center’s address into his maps to guide his way.  
  
It’s a nice car. An uneventful ride. All of 30 minutes blessedly alone with a coffee press cup of joe in her rehab center branded travel mug. He’d discovered the contraption next to her cereal with a costco sized bag of raw beans and a grinder. Of course, he’d had to Google how to use it but it was worth it. It’s _better_ than Starbucks. More … _roasty.  
  
_ He’s not sure what it is about this vastness. This open road and untouched earth. The raw, untamed wilderness sprawling out as far as the eye can see. But he _likes_ it. Could _live_ like this. Would _enjoy_ it. And he’s a doctor who grew up in the city for crying out loud. He’d bet his left nut there isn’t a single kosher restaurant in the city, which makes him giddy as _fuck_ knowing his mother would be averse to visiting.  
  
 _ **Nope, we like our nuts.**  
  
_ He’s got the window open a sliver to let in cool air and sips on the coffee stretching his neck every few minutes to work out the tightness there. The very same one that he hasn’t been able to get rid of since yesterday morning.  
  
“Destination up ahead in zero point three miles,” his guide chimes robotically.  
  
Oh, how nice it is to not have to ask a person for directions. Or use MapQuest. God he’s thankful he was born at the cusp of the tech revolution. He gets to enjoy a peopleless life and still feel connected should he ever feel the itch for ‘socializing’.  
  
The only sign he sees is a massive wooden banner with the letters SRWS, Susitna River Wildlife Rehabilitation, scrawled on it. It’s weather beaten and askew but he turns onto the gravel road it marks. Down a long driveway and into a parking lot with a Jeep Grand Cherokee and a beaten up Mazda 3.   
  
The first thing he notices when he enters the log cabin turned rehab center office isn’t the tall reception desk or the clinical chairs lining the perimeter of the walls. Not even how unnaturally warm it is inside the small space.   
  
It’s the scent that he notices first. There’s something sweet in the air yet again. It’s light, very light. Almost imperceptible but there nonetheless. Like a good perfume. It makes his eye twitch in annoyance.  
  
Yesterday he’d been glad his sinuses _finally_ decided to cooperate. Not only was he gifted an unattractive schnoz, but he’d also inherited his Zaydee's incredibly faulty sinuses. Today? The assault of smells is starting to mess with his head.   
  
It’s not even that he smells things. Usually that’s a good day. Car exhaust and breakfast foods from the deli around the corner, flowers and fresh cut grass. Now it’s the smell of _humans_ , which he already doesn’t like and it’s … offensive.  
  
It smells a little bit like lavender in the reception area. Lavender and … what _is_ that? Orange blossom? There’s also something else there. Something inherently masculine. A vetiver of sorts. It’s not a scent that’s layered. Not like someone spraying two perfumes or the mingling of two distinctly different people’s fragrance. It’s blended. Like one person is wearing _both_ in perfect unison.  
  
“Hi there,” a young woman with a brown bob and purple tips pops her head through a doorway behind the desk, “can I help you?”  
  
She’s wearing one of the same button downs he’d found in Rey’s drawers tucked into worn jeans and heavy boots. A little name badge pinched through above her breast that reads _Sabine W. Ranger_.   
  
The closer she gets to the desk, the more the sweeter of the two scents intensifies. It’s still muted. Still not nearly as strong as his patient’s perfume. Not even as strong as the lingering scent in her house, but it’s there and it’s undeniably this _Sabine_. Thank God he ate a good breakfast and had a restful sleep, at least it doesn’t set that weird voice off.  
  
 _ **Not ours.**  
  
_ Aah, well … wishful thinking Ben.  
  
“Uh,” he stammers, trying to clear his head and ignore the olfactory assault, “yes, actually … yesterday morning two of my staff came by to ask some questions about a patient of ours? Rey Niima. She’s an employee here?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Is everything alright?”  
  
“Doctor patient confidentiality, I’m afraid,” he scowls, “would I be able to speak with-”  
  
Just then, a youthful man with short clipped black hair and clear blue eyes comes out of the back. He, too, is wearing one of those shirts. His name tag reads _Ezra B. Director of Operations_.  
  
“-You,” Ben finishes, “I’m looking to speak with you, actually.”  
  
What strikes him just then is that this _Ezra’s_ cologne is the _other_ scent he’s picking up.  
  
 _God fucking damn this nose, quit it already_. _Also … are they fucking?  
  
_ “He’s here to ask questions about Rey,” the ranger tells Ezra in hushed tones.  
  
“Aah, of course. I assume you work with Rose and Armitage? I’ll take you to the enclosure so you can see Kanan. Follow me to the car, it’s a short drive from here.”  
  
Ezra, with his own branded travel mug in hand, walks past him and out the front door.  
  
Ben gives the ranger a bewildered look.   
  
Do they _really_ just talk to anyone? Just like that? No further prodding? No presentation of credentials?  
  
What if he’s a stalker? A criminal? An alien looking to abduct one of them?  
  
Just as he’s about to turn and follow the director, she cranes her head to check on paperwork pinned to a corkboard. And that’s when he notices the oddest thing.   
  
She has two raised welts, one on each side of her neck just under her ear. And exactly where Rey’s larger laceration lies, this ranger sports an identical one. Except this one has what appears to be a bite mark on it. The crescent shape and diameter undeniably human. Outlined in silvery white. But the skin is less swollen than his patient’s. Less red and angry. 

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


Ezra offers him a blanket. It’s thick and fleecy and smells all wrong. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and makes his throat do weird things. Like let out something akin to a growl.  
  
“Relax,” Ezra says while pointing towards a tall fence, “it’s so you don’t freeze. I don’t intend on infringing on your territory. Your staff arrived with light coats too which leads me to believe where you’re from, winters aren’t too cold.”  
  
 _Territory?  
  
_ “Besides, I’ve got Sabine. You’ve nothing worry about.”  
  
 _What?  
  
_ Ezra brings a small silver whistle to his mouth. Ben glances back at the warm Jeep still running behind them as they stroll alongside the enclosure. Beyond the tall chain link fence, the land sprawls out to seemingly no end. If the fence really does connect at some point, it’s not within a distance the human eye can see.  
  
“Here he comes,” Ezra says smiling. His coffee mug steams in his hand. As does his breath with each exhale.  
  
Ben notices, as this man watches a little grey spot grow larger in the distance, that Ezra has little raised bumps by his cervical lymph nodes. His too aren’t as aggravated, much like the ranger Sabine and contrary to his patient. Barely noticeable, if he’s being truthful.  
  
He’s entranced. Wanting to reach out and touch. Manipulate. Test. Wants to question the director about them and their origins because _that_ is one hell of a discovery. How the fuck didn’t Tico and Hux pick up on _that?  
  
_ _Is there an unknown virus going around in Alaska?  
  
_ He needs his laptop, a strong internet connection and a good hour alone to research recent medical data in the region. Needs blood, saliva and urine samples from those affected and unfettered access to a lab. Would Holdo lose her shit if he bogarts the entire lab? What clues would their samples yield?   
  
_Ohhh this is exciting!!  
  
_ There’s an unnaturally heavy breath from up ahead. A huff that’s decidedly not human. A huff that makes him tear his eyes away and stumble backwards.  
  
Before him, standing right in front of the fence, a giant grey wolf stands eyeing him with its piercing golden eyes. He’s massive - approximately 4 feet tall, his head alone the width of Ben’s torso, and he’s _not_ a small man. Thick fur mottled in various shades of gray. Ears pricked forward and attentive.  
  
Ben doesn’t understand why but he feels his hackles rising again. Feels his muscles tensing but not in preparation for flight. No, he feels himself ready to pounce and _fight_. With a wolf.   
  
Fuck. He needs to pencil himself in for an MRI. These thoughts are _definitely_ not normal.  
  
“This is Kanan,” Ezra says, his hands clasped casually around his mug.  
  
The wolf sits down, calmly darting its eyes between the two men.  
  
“He’s the one all the hospitals are asking about,” Ezra continues, “the alpha that bit our Rey.”  
  
“W-why … how did … he’s trained on a dog whistle?”  
  
 _Nice. Of all the questions to ask … dog training. This is going swimmingly.  
  
_ Ezra chuckles like the question is ludicrous.  
  
 _Because it is, you moron.  
  
_ “Yes, that’s Rey. She trained them to respond which makes managing them easier. But only the Alpha. You see, Mr…” Ezra makes eye contact with Ben just then, “I apologize for my manners, I never caught your name.”  
  
“Ben,” he responds, “Dr. Benjamin Solo.”  
  
“Dr. Solo, then. Pleasure to meet you. I’m Ezra. Ezra Bridger.”  
  
There’s something immensely satisfying about a man that makes him uncomfortable, a man that spikes his usually very balanced testosterone levels, addressing him by a superior title. It makes his chest puff out with pride.   
  
_Shit is he posturing?  
  
_ “As I was saying, Dr. Solo,” Ezra continues unfazed, “if you control the Alpha, you control the pack. At least, that was Rey’s position and it’s worked out really well for us here. Improved our program significantly and we’ve been able to release more into the wild than ever before.”  
  
“How come he’s here?” Ben asks, head tilting towards the beast on the other side of the fence, “he looks perfectly healthy.”  
  
 _ **Nice. Keep talking about the damn wolf. Not your mate.**  
  
_ _Patient, you oaf. Your_ _patient_ _.  
  
_ “Aah. He is. When he was brought in he’d gotten caught in a bear trap. Took Rey months to rehab him with our vet. He’s a stubborn one. While they were working she’d made a few discoveries that led to her wanting to study him further. Did your team brief you on our conversations?”  
  
“They did,” Ben nods, taking a sip from his (Rey’s) mug, “dire wolf right?”  
  
He tries really hard not to roll his eyes.   
  
He fails.  
  
“That’s her leading theory, though I’m not so sure I agree,” Ezra sighs, mimicking Ben’s actions and taking a sip of his own.  
  
 _Try again, Ben.  
  
_ “One of her symptoms-” Ben starts, fixing his gaze on the wolf. They’re staring each other down but it’s neither aggressive nor passive. Neither black nor white. Grey, like the wolf. Balance. Acceptance.   
  
_Two Alphas_.   
  
He jolts his head back against the intrusive thought, “-she keeps asking for Alpha. I assume she’s looking for _him_?”  
  
Ezra chuckles again, shaking his head. He tilts his head to the right, where a smaller wolf is trotting over to the fence.  
  
 _Control the alpha, control the pack_.  
  
“She’s not looking for _him_ , exactly,” Ezra says, clear blue eyes trailing the smaller grey wolf that’s closing distance, “she’s looking for _her_ Alpha.”  
  
 _Well that’s just nonsensical. Isn’t Kanan her Alpha? Didn’t she train him? Rehabilitate him? If this is some kind of human-animal bond then Kanan is_ obviously _what she’s looking for. He’s the one who bit her, for Christ’ sake.  
  
_ Ben may not be a detective, but he can follow a trail of clues around the crime scene. And _this_ is where those clues lead. To this wolf.  
  
The small wolf comes to a halt beside the Alpha. It slots its head underneath the brute, giving a few pushes up like it’s seeking attention. If he weren’t still wholly committed to winning his stare off with the Alpha, he’d think it was kind of cute.  
  
“That’s Hera,” Ezra says, “his mate.”  
  
 _ **Mate**. _ The voice purrs dreamily.  
  
 _Shut up!  
  
_ “Mate?”  
  
“Yep,” Ezra continues, now sporting an obnoxious smirk, “that’s why our Rey can’t be looking for him.”  
  
“Why?” Ben asks, confused.  
  
“Wolves only have one mate. They can be replaced but …” Ezra takes yet another sip, “only if one mate dies. As you can see, Hera is very much alive.”  
  
“Well, that doesn’t make much sense,” Ben sighs, suddenly _very_ aware that he’s gotten zero answers when he thought he’d get _something_ , “she’s asking for Alpha. _This_ is Alpha. But you’re saying it’s not. Tell me, Ezra, what universe of alternate logic did I find myself blasted into?”  
  
He rolls his eyes like a petulant child. Annoyance rising within as he fights to keep his composure.  
  
“Not _her_ Alpha,” Ezra corrects.  
  
“I don’t…” Ben starts but is cut off by a strange behaviour. The smaller wolf, Hera, is being bitten. Kanan is sinking his teeth into her neck but neither seem to be distressed. The Alpha looks calm. His mate does too. Content even.  
  
“That’s a new behaviour Rey discovered,” Ezra picks up on the confused look he’s giving the animals, “you see, typically grey wolves mate Alpha to Alpha. Hera over here is actually an Omega. The very bottom of the pecking order in a pack, if you will. Him choosing her was … well let’s just say it spurred Rey to write a new research paper.”  
  
 _The one on her nightstand?  
  
_ “Okaaaay,” Ben drawls, a communication prompt he uses liberally when someone is dragging out a story, “go on.”  
  
“Well, the biting is not _unheard_ of. But Kanan over here insists on biting the same spot. Rey did a routine check on Hera a few months ago and confirmed she has a silver bite mark. He … he marked her. Branded her-”  
  
 _As if_ this _is supposed to mean anythi…  
  
_ “-that’s completely new behaviour. Never before observed or studied. Part of why Rey thought he’s not a grey wolf but a different breed. She’s chosen dire wolf because his bite force and canines fit the profile. What he’s doing now,” Ezra points his mug at the two wolves that are nuzzling faces, “is renewing their bond, according to her research.”  
  
 _Bond?  
  
_ “I don’t … alright, that’s all fine and dandy,” he’s _definitely_ getting irate, maybe because he’s getting cold despite his fever and the wrong-smelling blanket, “but what does _any_ of that have to do with my patient?”  
  
Ezra pats him on the shoulder and turns him towards the car.  
  
“They’re gonna need privacy for this next bit,” he says ushering Ben towards his Jeep, “what your _patient_ is looking for isn’t _that_ Alpha. She’s searching for _her_ Alpha. Do you understand?”  
  
 _You’ve said that already dipshit.  
  
_ “No.”  
  
He’s never felt more dense in his life. Him. The smart one. The guy who one kid so eloquently called ‘Martin’ in highschool. A reference he’d only connected after randomly tuning into The Simpsons on a Sunday afternoon months later.  
  
“She’s looking for her mate,” Ezra enunciates as he slides into the driver’s seat and maneuvers them back onto the road towards the office. Like that’s supposed to mean anything to him. Jesus if she thought wolves were simpler than Tom, Dick or Harry, she’s gotta be on some very special drugs. This is more confusing than reading Immanuel Kant’s blatherings about metaphysics.   
  
It’s fine, he’ll bite and see if following the train of thought through will shed some more light. “How does it all work?”  
  
“It’s instinct. Wolves don’t need to go on dates and exchange numbers. They just _know_. By scent. Like nature intended them to be mated,” he shakes his head and chuckles, an act Ben is starting to get fed up with, “would be nice for humans too, right?”  
  
Alright … so it’s instinct. In _animals_. Rey is human. Sure, biologically speaking humans are animals but they don’t prescribe to the same set of base needs. And even if they do, they have the ability to control them. Wolves … _this wolf_ who bit her … mated by instinct. Rey’s instinct is … what exactly?  
  
“That works in animals whose lives are _ruled_ by instinct,” Ben rebuts, “but my patient is _human_ , Mr. Bridger. Humans use logic and have impulse control.”  
  
“I agree,” Ezra begins, “but what if Kanan managed to awaken something within her? What if she’s being guided by primal instincts and is no longer able to use logic.”  
  
 _Well, she did manage to strongarm him into buying her cold rolls. She can banter with the best of them (Ben … Ben is the best of them). That’s clearly not the case. She's proven she's perfectly capable of rationalizing with the exception of her hallucinations..._  
  
“That … doesn’t even make any sense,” Ben retorts after too many moments of quiet deliberation.  
  
“Whether it makes sense or not,” Ezra sighs as he pulls up to the cabin, “it’s the truth.”  
  
Well he came for answers and dammit he _will_ get some. Even if this dimwit can’t clarify, he knows a way to get exactly what he needs _without_ the director.  
  
He’s annoyed and frustrated. So much so he’s resorting to making snipped requests because he’s had just about enough of this place.  
  
“I need a sample of his blood.”  
  
Ezra begins nodding, “that can be arranged. We had him in yesterday, the vet might have a spare vial in the fridge.”  
  
“Good, good…” he nods, satisfied with at least getting something tangible out of this clusterfuck of a morning.  
  
How have Hux and Tico not asked for this? They brought back a sample of fucking _water_ but not some unknown wolf species’ blood?  
  
The two men sit in the car. Ezra’s turned off the engine and the silence is, again, deafening. There’s the screech of an owl or an eagle. Some squawky flying thing. Both stare ahead at the cabin.  
  
Ezra clears his throat before he turns to Ben, “tell me, Dr. Solo, have you uh … felt a little hot lately?”  
  
 _The hell does it matter?  
  
_ “Yes.”  
  
“Has your sense of smell heightened?”  
  
“Y-yes,” he answers more skeptically now.  
  
 _What is this guy a doctor now?  
  
_ “I see...” Ezra says sliding out of the car and closing the door. Ben joins him outside. He notices the man lean in briefly. Notices his nostrils flare wide like he’s trying to sniff something out before he chuckles again. “Dr. Solo, when you were in that office with us, did you smell lavender?”  
  
 _What the fuck?  
  
_ “Yes.”  
  
Ezra, for some unknown reason decides this is a great time to beam a brilliant smile at him. At _him_. Dr. Benjamin Solo. The (self proclaimed) biggest asshole of a doctor in North America. The man who can make babies cry with his perfected scowl.  
  
He sticks his hand out to Ben, shakes it heartily before turning on his heel. “It was a pleasure meeting you Dr. Solo. And, do me a favour?” he takes a pregnant pause, looking at the gravel before his eyes meet Ben’s again, “try not to think too much. Just let your instincts take care of you. They’re sharper than you’d think, even when they’re freshly awoken.”  
  
 _There’s those words again … instinct, awaken. Why is he being so cryptic…  
  
_ The man begins to walk into the office leaving Ben outside in the cold.   
  
“Go ahead and warm up her car,” he calls back, “I’ll have Sabine bring out a vial if we have one. If not you might need to wait for us to tranq him and grab you a fresh sample. I’ll need to call the vet in so it might be a few hours.”  
  
He stops just outside the door looking at his coffee in ... contemplation?  
  
“Try to get some rest. And find a nice quiet place for yourselves. For a week. I’d say you have about 24 to 48 hours. And make sure your fridge is stocked. Oh, and don’t worry about the knot. It’ll come naturally and she’ll like it.”  
  
 _What the actual fuck is he saying?  
  
_ “I’m sure you’ll take a bite out of that diagnosis soon enough,” he calls over his shoulder with a wink, “and come back to see me when she’s feeling all better. When you’re _both_ feeling better. I have a feeling it’ll be really soon.”  
  
The door closes behind the director leaving Ben alone in the parking lot with a blank expression on his face and a (now) cold cup of coffee. His hand is already toying with the key in his pocket.  
  
Something deep inside him starts chanting.  
  
 _ **Our mate.**  
  
_ _Fuck!_

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


He should have stalked back into that dingy fucking office after that asswipe and clocked him. Rattled his pretty-boy eyes right out of his riddling head. _Demanded_ answers.  
  
 _At least we got that vial of blood.  
  
_ The ranger was kind enough to lend him a small cooler bag (probably a lunch bag) stacked with cold packs to keep the sample iced. Even went as far as to ‘gift’ him a urine sample which he’s sure the lab is going to chew him out for. It gave him trouble at screening but his credentials and a quick call to Holdo quickly cleared that up.  
  
He picks up his carry ons bags and trudges to the bathrooms, having made it to the gate with ample time to give himself a quick splash. Cool down his burning body before he’s stuck inside a pressurized metal tube with a bunch of germ factories.   
  
Outside of having gotten absolutely zero answers, he _did_ manage to swing by that Costco in town and spend $500. He really doesn’t know how the fuck that happens every time he goes into that store. He’d promised himself he was only going to get her some more frozen fruits and a Costco sized container of blueberries.   
  
Somehow he’d walked out with a six-pack of oat milk cartons (for variety), 8 bags of various frozen fruit, a box of Mochi, 2 bags of frozen cod fillets, a flat of eggs, the container of blueberries as well as raspberries and grapes, two bags of avocado, a pair of winter boots and a packable down jacket (for himself), a new fluffy king sized blanket, two full sets of new towels, an electric toothbrush with an 8 pack of heads, a new pair of queen sized sheets and a plethora of snacks (chocolate covered almonds included).   
  
At least he’d patiently waited (without losing his shit) at the pumps to fill up her tank. So that was a positive. Even if he’d brooded about his bill the whole time.  
  
He wonders if he could dump _that_ bill onto Holdo’s desk. Would she start bleating? Or would she bow to his will since he’s working on adding another conclusive diagnosis to their roster? His mother seemed pretty content when she’d so rudely interrupted their scrum. She also seemed to be on his side so that was another positive. Maybe she’d defend his impromptu shopping spree that has absolutely zero medical basis.  
  
Yeah, you know what? He’s going to dump that bill off and see what happens.   
  
He could use a good verbal match after all this bullshit.  
  
Maybe it’s Ezra’s words, cryptic as they had been that bring him a strange sense of peace. Maybe it’s that the samples he’s hauling could hold the answers he’s seeking. Maybe it’s that he’s provided for his mate and that their house is ready for them when she gets out.  
  
 _Wait what?  
  
_ Fucking hell! When did that voice bleed into conscious thought? Infusing its ridiculous ramblings into his inner dialogue. How _dare_ it?  
  
He deposits his overnight bag on the counter, stares at himself in the mirror under the harsh fluorescent lights. There’s a man shaking himself off at the urinal and clearing his throat grossly. A flush and a boy arguing with his dad about not having to poop in one of the stalls.   
  
All things considered, with the fever he seems to be running, he looks just fine.  
  
No bags under his eyes, skin is a normal tone. He’s not flushed nor is his nose red.   
  
Running his hands under the faucet he checks the temperature to make sure it’s cold, finding it pleasantly so. He cups his hands together to collect a satisfying pool of water and bends down, splashing it over his face. He does this again and again, letting the cold water soothe him. Taking his wet hands and pressing them against the sides of his neck to extend the relief further down his body.  
  
That’s when he feels it.  
  
Something’s wrong.  
  
Something’s different.  
  
Something doesn’t belong.  
  
Pushing the ends of his damp hair aside, he sees two little swells on either side of his neck just where Rey’s are. They’re just starting to turn red but they’re unmistakable.  
  
 _ **To calm our mate.**  
  
_ The voice is back, and it’s grown louder. Overtop of it he hears her voice echo in his head.  
  
 _‘I have this voice in my head … it gets loud. Really loud. And insistent … it sounds like me. But it’s not me. I know it’s not. Because she says things that don’t make sense.’  
  
_ Oh God, oh God, oh God.  
  
 _Holy fucking shit, it_ **_is_ ** _contagious!  
  
_ “Now boarding flight number CT-7567 to Coruscant.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know who has a SAD light? I do. I do.
> 
> [SAD Light (what they look like)](https://www.health.com/depression/best-light-therapy-boxes)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What happened?”_
> 
> _“She’s gone insane’s what happened,” the anesthesiologist cries._
> 
> _Ben lets loose another exaggerated eye roll, then looks to his surgeon for answers. People who aren’t on his team don’t understand. Even if his doctors are morons on the best of days, they naturally understand what it’s like to work with him. To work with his patients. All of which are medical mysteries until they’re not._
> 
> _“Christ, Solo … where do I even start?”_
> 
> _“Anywhere as long as you’re concise. Just the facts would be most helpful,” he picks the non-existent dirt from under his nails, tapping his foot impatiently._
> 
> _“We went in to get her prepped. When we got there she was piling blankets in a corner and screamed bloody murder.”_
> 
> _“She threw her IV drip at us,” the anesthesiologist interrupts, “pulled it straight out of her arm. Blood dripping everywhere. Then she tried to fucking bite me.”_
> 
> _“And you just ... left?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Someone's_ starting to get louder ... more insistent. I wonder who 🤔
> 
> Did this take a long time to crank out? Yes. Did real life kick my ass six ways from Sunday? Yes. Did the story mildly deviate from what I'd originally planned? Also yes ... so we're adding another chapter cause YOLO.
> 
> Also, mild CW - there's a brief mention of masturbation (non-descriptive) towards the end of the first section. If you're sensitive about that, skip to the microscopes once he gets home. You've been warned.

**Hux:** _Dameron worked magic. Got an MRI at 3 but you won’t like the results. Op booked for 7. Will you be there?  
  
_ _For fucks sake Hux I just landed!  
  
_ He’s irate. Is there a stronger word for what he is? Furious? Outraged? Vexed?  
  
The hodge podge of scents on the plane had made him nauseous enough to bust out an N95 mask to wear through the flight. He’d popped an Advil too to stave off the fever that’d started ramping up and used 2 puffs of Nasonex per nostril to deal with whatever the hell his sinuses were doing.  
  
It kind of worked. But he still felt himself on edge. A level of anger or aggression he couldn’t seem to get a grasp on simmering just along the edges. Probably because he’d come to the realization that _his patient was fucking contagious!  
  
_ He did manage a smug self congratulatory smirk under his mask for having the foresight to pack some medical necessities. Including the blessed steroid nasal spray.  
  
So he’d dished the $29 for on-board wifi and busied himself with researching recent outbreaks and spikes in infections. Specifically in Alaska. Mostly to distract himself from his condition.  
  
He’d come up empty. Of course. _Of course.  
  
_ Because, why _would_ the universe ever make things easy for him?  
  
It had gifted him the awkwardly large, bull-in-a-china-shop body of a giant. Dumbo’s ears and Zaydee’s nose. _Of course_ it would try to fuck him again. It’s nothing but expected at this point. It’s why he’d dug into his intellect so hard. Why he stroked it and buried himself in mountains of books in school. If he wasn’t genetically gifted in the looks department he could mold his intelligence into a weapon to smite his enemies with.  
  
At least he also got a natural wit sharper than Hux’s scalpel out of the deal. So that’s something. The universe’s way of regaining balance. Though he would trade an ounce of his wit for smaller ears.  
  
 _Pffft. Nope. Hair can cover ears, but it can’t cover stupid.  
  
_ After 3 hours of unsuccessful medical research and a handful of (unanswered) emails to regional hospitals, he gave up and decided to maximize on his in-flight purchase. Namely by catching up on his secret passion for old Bob Ross videos on YouTube.  
  
Which held him up for another 2 hours and managed to untangle the coil of anger in his body somewhat.  
  
So he reluctantly glanced out the window at the landscape while the toddler sitting directly behind him continued the assault on the back of his seat with his (or her) infernal hooves.   
  
_How do such tiny creatures pack such a fucking kick?  
  
_ He felt his neck to check the status of his growing bumps, _proof_ her ailment was infectious and typed “Anchorage News” into his browser. Proceeded to scroll through news stories hoping to catch sight of _anything_ of use.

  
  


**_Spike in violence no cause of concern, Police Chief says._ **

_Though recent concerns over violence have caused many to question Police Chief Drego’s methods, he insists residents have nothing to worry about. “We see [moderate spikes of] violence in the spring every year. A 12% increase is not unheard of.”_ _  
__  
__When asked about reported incidents of aggression, the Chief declined to comment._

  
  
  


**Aviation Mechanic closes doors for week. Claims employees too sick to work. Blames seasonal affective disorder.**

_Mr. Quarrie of Quarrie Aviation Motors Inc. reminds residents of the importance of daily vitamin D dosage during the winter months. “Half my staff showed up with a fever Monday morning. Had to send them all home. They’ve been indisposed for the better part of a week and it’s costing us business.”  
  
_ _Spring time is notorious for increased contagion as our city wakes up from its winter slumber. As such, the flu gains new footing. If you feel signs of the flu, please visit your family doctor,_ not _the emergency room._

  
  
  


**_Assault charges dropped against man accused of biting woman._ **

_In a stunning turn of events, Ms. Netal has chosen to withdraw her charges against her assailant Mr. Maul. News sources claim to have seen the two snuggling in line at a local cafe. One might say love is in bloom for these two residents?_

  
  
  


He’d have liked to have read the entirety of the last article and delved into accompanying pieces. A bite story _could_ be related based on what he’d seen on the two SRWR employees. Except they’d started their descent and a baby (why is there always a baby?) had begun its incessant whining.   
  
**Solo:** _Yes. I’ll be there. Don’t get your panties in a knot.  
  
_ He wipes his face roughly when he exits the terminal, the cool afternoon air doing wonders for his (now clear and blessedly scent free) sinuses. Around him the busy city goes about its day. Newly arrived travellers hugging their relatives, two flight attendants smoking in the corner, a taxi honking at a minivan parked a foot and a half off the curb. He glances up at the terminal clock.  
  
It’s 5:30 now.   
  
He watches his Uber move into position on his phone while jostling with decisions. The op is scheduled for 7.  
  
On one hand, it’ll take him an hour to get home in the shitty afternoon traffic. Go figure he manages to clear one type of congestion only to hit another (damn nine to fivers).  
  
On the other, he is desperate to wash the airplane off of himself and take a closer look at his neck. He _is_ fortunate enough to live within walking distance to the hospital, having acquired his modest bungalow about a year into his position on account of an estate sale.   
  
With a little luck and a cunning driver he could make it home for 6:15 which would buy him enough time to accomplish his goal of purification _and_ make it in time for the surgery.  
  
Yeah. That’s what he’ll do.  
  
So it’s what he does.  
  
He gets into his Uber and basks in the silent (and scentless) glory of the Prius. Appreciative of every shortcut this driver takes to get him to his house in record time. 6:00 PM, his phone tells him.  
  
Miraculous. He _should_ give the driver 5 stars. But that’s not who he is. 4.5 is the best he’ll give because nothing in this world is perfect. Giving someone a perfect 5 is the equivalent of handing out participation ribbons at junior league soccer matches and it breeds pussies. Ben does _not_ endorse pussies nor congratulating anyone for doing their fucking job.  
  
He makes himself a shake, downing it while he undresses and prattles around the house in the nude unabashed. Guzzles the icy treat while he dumps the contents of his overnight into his laundry hamper and turns on his shower to let it warm up. Until he realizes he doesn’t _want_ a hot shower and turns the dial all the way down before he hops in that is.  
  
The cold water is inexplicably soothing. It’s an odd revelation because he’s usually the type for scalding hot. Then again, his body is on the verge of combusting so the water temperature is simply a reflection of his current state. He imagines himself steaming like a looney tunes character while he stands under the icy spray and lets it beat against his back. Relishing in being home. Alone. Quiet. No voice in his head.  
  
Which incidentally…  
  
 **_Don’t wash off our mate’s scent_** **.  
  
** Of course. That was wishful thinking, wasn’t it?  
  
Somehow, the awakening of that voice gets his blood flowing to his nether regions. Like it had whispered some filthy porn-grade dirty talk that could give the geriatric ward a boner (without the help of one little blue pill). He doesn’t even know what it is, exactly, but he finds himself unable to resist the urge.  
  
He’s got time. Fuck it. Hakuna Matata, as they say.  
  
He takes himself in hand roughly and finishes in record time. A very particular scent dominating his senses, nudging him along. One of jasmine and vanilla, like a decadent dessert. He doesn’t analyze _why_ that scent pushes him over the edge in minutes. Only appreciative of its aiding him in getting it over with. Appreciative of how much better he feels after, like the stress of the day has eased a little more with release.  
  
When he finishes and towels himself off, he’s hit by the oddest sensation. A sensitivity in a place that’s (well, usually it’s sensitive anyway but…) new. He looks down to inspect the source.  
  
Everything looks normal, just as he left it, not that he’s in the habit of checking out his junk more than necessary. He’s not 5 and he’s outgrown Freud’s phallic stage.   
  
Everything is just as it should be with the exception of … what is that? There, right at the root, right at the very base of his male anatomy the skin looks redder. It feels a little swollen, the skin a little rougher and a lot more sensitive. He squirms when his fingers graze the swelling. It feels fucking glorious and if he didn’t have somewhere to be he’d venture to guess that a few more touches would probably render him ready for round 2.  
  
But what the _fuck_ is that? Is it related to the welts? None of her charts mentioned anything out of sorts with _her_ nether regions. Unless he considers this in loose relation to Hux’s note about excessive … lubrication. What the fuck do genitals have to do with lymph nodes? They’re part of the immune system, not _sexual_ … there’s no relation there. It’s medically impossible.  
  
He groans in frustration, bonking his head lightly against the tiles. _This day can’t get any worse.  
  
_ **_Find mate.  
  
_ **“Fuck!”

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


“You…” the lab technician gawks at him over the rim of his obnoxiously square glasses, “want me to… run wolf blood and urine.”  
  
“Yes,” he bites.   
  
What _is_ it with these lab rats? They just have to hold their nose, grab a dropper and put it into one machine or another then analyze the results, or more appropriately, collect the print outs and drop them off on the requesting physician’s desk. Fuck, with the new system they can technically just press a button and _email_ the results. Ben’s not asking the guy to guzzle it down or inject himself with it.  
  
 _Fuck you Matt!  
  
_ **_Yeah, fuck you Matt.  
  
_ ** _Shut up.  
  
_ “But … it’s animal samples. We don’t … we don’t do that here. I could get it sent out to a specialized lab?”  
  
The blond bastard is trembling. Probably heard of Ben’s reputation and is pissing his pants because he’s denying _the_ diagnostician - the hospital’s most valuable asset. And he should. He _should_ tremble. Because Ben’s already formulated the perfect remark … namely that if his processing skills are as good as his toupee, he should probably dust off his resume.  
  
(Yes, his 12 year old inner child is cackling uncontrollably.)  
  
“Listen to me, _Matt_ ,” he takes a glance down at the name tag then fixes the technician with all the fury that’s been building in the last 24 hours, “you’re going to take those samples and you’ll run them right here. You’re going to run them _just_ like you did the patient’s. You’re going to say jack shit about them and then you’ll _personally_ deliver the results when it’s all done. Are we clear?”  
  
“Crystal,” the man’s voice warbles, “but…”  
  
 _Jesus fucking Christ.  
  
_ “But what?” he spits, impatience teetering him on the brink of an outburst. He hasn’t had one in a long time, usually finding a good dose of sarcasm is all the cure he needs. But he hasn’t been able to do that lately and he’s balancing on a knife’s edge as a result. All the previous aggression that’d built in his system throughout the day threatening to boil over.  
  
He feels unhinged. Like his body is on the verge of raging. He should get to the gym, actually.  
  
“Dr. Holdo won’t approve and when she finds out…”  
  
“Well she won’t find out, will she?” he interrupts. Enough is enough.  
  
“Uh… It’ll be in the chart, sir.”  
  
“And _I’ll_ deal with that when the time comes. _You_ , on the other hand, best start doing your job. Namely processing whatever samples we dump into your inbound basket.”  
  
He doesn’t wait for an answer, simply turns around and walks out of the lab.   
  
It’s 6:40 and he assumes Hux is prepping the patient for surgery. What he’d like to do is pull up his email to check if any hospitals have returned his inquiries. Then review the MRI results with Dameron if he can find him.  
  
So he plods over to the elevator taking deep calming breaths, contending himself with having dropped off the wolf’s samples. A small victory on a day rife with failures. Pulling out his pager, he summons his neurologist as the doors close behind him.   
  
It, unfortunately, leaves him in a confined space with two gossiping nurses riding up past his floor. So he fixes his gaze down on his shoes, frowning deeply at the little mud streak that has managed to soil the pristine leather. At least his sense of smell is still blessedly dampened. They’re giggling over a date with one of the ER doctors and Ben thanks every one of his lucky stars he’d used that nasal spray. One of their perfumes stinks like fermented rose petals and vinegar. It would be more cloying if it wasn’t for the steroid spray.  
  
He suppresses the urge to turn around and ask her if her idea of capturing the attention of a potential partner is to gas them with her cheap eau de toilette. If she’s aware that it smells like Hades garden after Cerberus had the runs from eating one too many souls.  
  
Instead, he contents himself with holding his breath and watching the floors tick by at a syrupy slow pace. Like the universe _wants_ to keep him confined to the elevator with Ms. Rotten Roses. When the doors slide open on his floor, he all but stumbles out choking for air. Gulping heaving lungfuls of the stuff to purify his poor alveoli.   
  
Dameron’s already waiting by the whiteboard. So, of course, the only logical choice is to walk past the scrum room and straight into his adjoining office to check his emails. Completely ignoring his neurologist in the process.  
  
“You … uh, wanted to review before you head in with Hux?” Dameron’s head pops through the open doorway.   
  
_Should have closed it off before leaving_.  
  
Thing is, he never _does_ close the door to the adjoining scrum. Firstly, he’s got nothing to hide. His staff (and by extension everyone at the hospital) is free to sift through his files. Secondly, nobody’s got the balls to enter his space uninvited (save Holdo). So he’s never had the need to lock any doors.  
  
Ben blinks at him a few times. Throws him a faux baffled look in hopes it’ll get a rise out of him. Yes it’s childish but he needs it. A 5+ hour long flight wears a man down. Dampens his sense of humour.  
  
“You paged so I assumed…” Dameron trails off, head tilting slightly in confusion, “I just assumed you wanted to go over the MRI results before the surgery. So you’d know what to look for … or not, y’know?”  
  
“I do,” Ben starts, ready to drop his snide remark about how well his rabies theory is coming along. That’s when he notices something new. Something now familiar in a wrong place. A little red welt on Dameron’s neck right beneath his ear.  
  
 _Oh shit.  
  
_ Ben clears his throat and changes direction, walking past Dameron yet again to plop down into the sofa. Even in this seated position, his discovery and his neurologist’s lack of awareness, affords him a familiar sense of control. It’s nice to feel complete mastery over just one thing, especially after a day’s worth of uncertainty.  
  
“How long?” He asks, cocking his head. He unfolds his arms, stretching them across the back of the sofa. Gloating.  
  
His neurologist stops dead in his tracks. The MRI scans clutched in his hand and face contorted in confusion. “I’m sorry, how long what? We had the imaging done 4 hours ago.”  
  
“No,” Ben leans forward, draping his arms over his knees, “the lesions or welts. How long have you had them?”  
  
“Welts?” If Dameron could look any more disoriented, Ben assumes his features would look like a Mr. Potato Head toy put together by an infant. In all their years working together, this is the most perplexed he's ever seen him. It means he doesn’t know.  
  
“You have welts like hers,” he offers him a bone, fingers coming up to his own neck to gesture to the area. He doesn’t push aside his hair, only wiggles his fingers in the general vicinity of his cervical lymph node.  
  
“No I don…” Dameron’s hand flies up to his neck, the rebuttal practically a whine before the realization hits, “holy _shit_ it’s _contagious_?”  
  
Does he slow clap?  
  
Does he offer his silent condolences to Dameron’s ego?  
  
Does he act surprised by how detached Dameron is from his own body?  
  
Yes. All of it. All of the above.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


“I guess you were right. It’s not rabies,” Dameron’s head rests heavily in his palm. In his other hand he holds a shaky cup of coffee. It took him all of 5 minutes of silently trodding circles around their table before calming down enough to sit and accept the inevitable.  
  
Namely that he’d caught whatever their patient had. And that he’d been woefully wrong about rabies.  
  
“No shit Sherlock,” Ben gloats with a hint of mock surprise. He’s most certainly _not_ going to tell Dameron that he’s got it too. _Noooo_ way Jose.   
  
“I just don’t understand _how_ ,” he groans pushing the MRI results to Ben. “There’s nothing there. Not even the welts or lesions or whatever the _fuck_ those are look completely normal on the scan.”  
  
Ben slides the results across the table, picks them up leafing through the radiographs to find that Dameron’s assessment is … irrefutably correct. There’s no signs of any inflammation. Her lymph nodes all look fine. Her brain, too, is in perfect condition. There’s no abnormal growths nor any dark spots to indicate potential tumors or necrosis.   
  
_Fuck.  
  
_ “Did Holdo give you shit for the scan?”  
  
“Eeh, no more than usual but she’s easy to manipulate, you know?”  
  
 _No, I don’t know. The woman shrieks like a banshee everytime I make a request.  
  
_ “All I had to do was make the pitch,” Dameron continues, “and promise our patient would be ready to fill in should there be cancellations. And there was of course … so, we jumped on the first one.”  
  
Smart. Using the hospital’s own weakness against it. Patients are notoriously unreliable. Even with the most stringent preparation and scheduling, cancellations occur. And since the machine and its techs are already set (paid for), might as well take advantage. He won’t tell Dameron that though.  
  
“I just don’t understand _how_ ,” he asks, eyes staring off distantly through the glass wall of their scrum room. His hand idly moves from cradling his jaw to feeling the welts on his neck. First one then the other, fingers lightly grazing across his bobbing adam’s apple while the coffee in his hand shakes. Ben _should_ feel bad for him.  
  
He doesn’t.   
  
“How you contracted it?”  
  
“Yeah,” he admits glumly.  
  
“Well, let’s see. She bit your boyfriend and then you made out with him,” Ben starts nonchalantly, eyes fixed out the window, “now I’m no expert in infectious diseases, but that sounds like a pretty likely path of infection.”  
  
Dameron scoffs, “if you’re going to hinge everything on _that_ theory, wouldn’t that mean Hux’d have it too? And Finn?”  
  
Ben quirks his brow. Come to think of it, yes, they should. If it was transmitted through saliva then _yes_ both of them would exhibit the same symptomatology. If it was only Finn he’d put his money on blood, but Dameron hadn’t been bitten so it’s most likely body fluids. Either saliva or … down there fluids. Which could definitely put Hux in the running since he made out with the patient, and _holy shit_ Tico too since she’d spent the day boinking him in Anchorage.  
  
Yet that doesn’t account for himself. He hadn’t swapped spit with anyone. He hadn’t been bitten. He’d had _one_ oddly specific and surprisingly realistic sexual dream of her but that’s it. At most he’d touched her without a proper medical barrier and even then, he’d scrubbed after. He _always_ scrubs after touching a patient.   
  
Unless it was on her sheets or her towel at her house. Or traces of whatever it is on her mugs or cutlery. Maybe her car? But the timelines don’t match. If Dameron is exhibiting the same symptoms as Ben, that would mean they’d been infected around the same time. His neurologist’s welts don’t look any further ahead than his own.  
  
Either Ben is fast tracking or Dameron is slow. Right?  
  
There’s no way he’d have gotten it two days ago, though. Is there?  
  
“So, what now?” Dameron’s voice interrupts his train of thought.  
  
Ben leans forward, resting his chin in his cupped hands. Truth is, until they know what this is, they shouldn’t worry themselves sick over it. All it would do is hinder their diagnostics process. They’d make mistakes, let clues slip through their fingers in an attempt to solve the puzzle faster.   
  
The best course of action is to solve their patient’s mystery illness calmly and from there formulate a treatment plan for themselves. And besides the welts and a mild fever, which doesn’t seem to be impeding his day to day, there’s nothing that’s causing any concern. He could keep working, keep plugging away at whatever she has until he figures it out.   
  
And stay away from others, of course.  
  
“Prednisone,” he finally offers distantly. It’s a logical next step.  
  
Dameron gives him a harsh side glance. “I was wondering when you’d invoke the corticosteroid clause. You wanna break her down completely before making her better, huh?”  
  
“Sometimes you gotta level the ground before you build back up,” Ben shrugs, “if her symptoms aren’t going to give us what we need, we’ll force her body’s hand.”  
  
“Fair. If it’s allergic, the prednisone will help. If it’s not, you’re fucking up her immune system,” Dameron bites his cheek in thought, “it could put her at risk of whatever she’s got.”  
  
“Coming from the guy who wanted to biopsy her brain and run an FAT?”  
  
Dameron scoffs in answer.   
  
_Thought so.  
  
_ His neurologist takes a shaky sip of his coffee. A poor beverage choice considering his frazzled nerves, but Ben holds back judgement. He’d freaked out too at the airport.   
  
“I ordered a neurotransmitter test with the lab to check her levels,” Dameron offers, eyes staring into the depths of his cup like it might hold an answer, “maybe… maybe we were too focused on her physical symptoms but neglected the psychological ones. Maybe … maybe her brain chemistry is off-kilter.”  
  
It’s not a bad idea. It doesn’t explain the (possibly) contagious welts but it would explain the hallucinations and the voice she hears. If they can balance out her neural activity, at least they could skirt her various mental states and have a fully cooperative patient.  
  
He nods at Dameron tersely. The only admission of a job well done and the fucker has the gall to smirk at him in return. He needs to bring him down a notch.  
  
 **_We’re the Alpha here.  
  
_ ** _Shut. Up.  
  
_ “Tell me, Dameron. Have you been feeling hot lately?”  
  
He can’t help himself. Ezra’s last words seemed to have something to do with the condition so it’s nice to get a leg up on a smug Dameron. If they’d temporarily rendered him speechless, they’ll probably floor this guy.  
  
“Uh, yeah?”  
  
“Your sense of smell heightened?”  
  
Dameron blinks at him dumbly before nodding slowly. “Y-yeah, actually,” he gulps, eyes widening, “but that’s just spring, isn’t it?”  
  
Ben bobs his head, yeah. They have the same thing. What did that asshat say? 24-48 hours?   
  
His pager wails loudly in his pocket. Ben fishes it out to see the words “patient in distress” flashing across it.  
  
With a frustrated sigh, he sits up. Running his free hand through his hair and pushing the pager back into his jean pocket.   
  
“Use Nasonex. It’ll take the edge off,” he grunts walking out, “and go get some rest. We’ll convene tomorrow when we get the lab results. Be careful not to touch others and sanitize. We don’t know how it’s spread so let’s mitigate, yeah?”  
  
Before he clears the door he throws one last instruction to a very confused Dameron. “Oh, and write up a prescription for prednisone. Make it strong and have it delivered to my desk.”

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


Finn is … kissing the two nurses he’d ridden in the elevator with. On the lips. It’s not sexual by a long shot. Just … jarringly European?  
  
“Thank you Jess,” he’s saying, “I appreciate the gesture. Poe wrapped it up nice and tight and it’s healing quickly. We’ll see you guys on Saturday for drinks?”  
  
 _Who the fuck kisses friends on the lips? What exactly is Finn's background anyway?  
  
_ He’s never bothered getting to know staff beyond what makes them tick. Even names are a nicety he won’t bestow on them. Simply nicknaming them. The ginger with the scalpel. The shrieking blonde. Fran Dresher’s vocal twin. Widow’s peak in oncology. He kind of wishes he’d paid attention right now.  
  
He also kind of wishes Finn wasn’t off shift and wearing a fucking coat with the collar turned up so he could check the status of his neck.  
  
“Hey Doctor Solo,” he chimes when their eyes meet, not a single ounce of embarrassment on his face, “think they need you with Peanut in there.” The nurse’s head falls back with a laugh before he’s shaking it. “I’m not allowed in, being off shift and all,” Finn continues, “but if you ask me, it seems like those 2 forgot their bedside manners.”  
  
It’s a comment in passing. Something he doesn’t quite disagree with. Nurses, like Finn, spend so much time tending to patients and interacting. Doctors can (and do, for as much as he’s observed) prefer brief and sterile encounters. Not that he begrudges doctors either … he’s the king of quickies. Patient visits, that is. He lasts just fine in bed, thank you very much.  
  
He nods at Finn, the two exchanging eye rolls in camaraderie before they both scurry off in their chosen directions. Ben considers briefly messaging Dameron, asking him to check Finn in for welts just in case. But that falls by the wayside when he approaches his destination.  
  
Hux is leaning against the doorway of their patient’s room. His face ruby red and he’s huffing. No, scratch that, he’s heaving like he’s run a marathon and if he wasn’t supposed to be washing up for surgery, Ben would find the time to laugh heartily at the sight. Knee slap and all.  
  
Beside him, the anesthesiologist, Dr. Mitaka, is standing akimbo, hands grasping his hips in some failed attempt at making himself look bigger. Except it falls flat in light of the look on his face - dishevelled and bug eyed.   
  
“Do _not_ go in there,” Hux warns. His finger wags between Ben and the doorway. There’s crashing noises beyond and he might be able to hear her mutter something or other.   
  
There’s a smell here. That scent - her perfume - is richer than it was before. Like he can practically taste the vanilla. Like he’s slicing the pod open himself, letting the fresh aroma coat his olfactory system. Like he’s squeezing little jasmine florets between his fingers to release their luscious fragrance.  
  
It manages to cut through the steroid spray he’d used earlier on the flight and zing his brain. Like it’s become something tangible, something that physically coats his skin and permeates to seep inside.  
  
He should take another puff of Nasonex.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“She’s gone insane’s what happened,” the anesthesiologist cries.  
  
Ben lets loose another exaggerated eye roll, then looks to his surgeon for answers. People who aren’t on his team don’t understand. Even if his doctors are morons on the best of days, they naturally understand what it’s like to work with him. To work with his _patients_. All of which are medical mysteries until they’re not.  
  
“Christ, Solo … where do I even start?”  
  
“Anywhere as long as you’re concise. Just the facts would be most helpful,” he picks the non-existent dirt from under his nails, tapping his foot impatiently.  
  
“We went in to get her prepped. When we got there she was piling blankets in a corner and _screamed_ bloody murder.”  
  
“She threw her IV drip at us,” the anesthesiologist interrupts, “pulled it straight out of her arm. Blood dripping _everywhere._ Then she tried to fucking _bite_ me. _”  
  
_ “And you just ... _left?”_   
  
_Incredible. Un-fucking-believable. Two seasoned doctors leave a bleeding patient for fear of … what?  
  
_ “She’s dangerous!”  
  
She’s of good height. She’s fit. She might even have a mean streak to her (if her snark is any indication) but she’s _certainly_ not dangerous. The prospect of his mate being called that makes his hackles rise. Makes him bare his teeth.  
  
 _Wait what?  
  
_ “She’s _sick_ ,” Ben snarls.  
  
“Well be my guest,” the anesthesiologist presses on, “I, for one, value my hide.”  
  
Ben releases a long, drawn out sigh. Groan and all. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes against the impending headache this irresponsible twat is causing. Taking a few cleansing breaths to try to calm his nerves. The scent lingering in the hallway doesn’t help whatsoever. It makes his body want to lunge head first into that room.   
  
And this fucking idiot! Letting a patient bleed freely...   
  
Sure, yeah, anesthesiologists are essentially medical mathematicians. They’re extremely capable at measuring out dosages and adjusting throughout surgery. They’re meticulous and brilliant and necessary. That doesn’t exactly make them brave or the poster children for ‘doctors without borders’, but he’d expected a little more … Hippocratism (is that even a word?) from someone in their profession. It’s like a cop running away from a crime scene because their job is paper pushing at the precinct.  
  
“Give it to me,” he holds his hand out, wiggles his fingers impatiently.   
  
Without further prodding Dr. Mitaka produces a capped syringe and lays it into his outstretched hand.   
  
A swallow. A nod. _Good luck in there.  
  
_ Ben pushes the door open a smidge, slides through the narrow opening and shuts it firmly behind him.  
  
The first thing he notices under the harsh fluorescent light is that Hux’s analysis was indeed correct. In the corner by the window there’s a mass of shitty, gritty hospital blankets and pillows. He doesn’t even know where she got them until he hears a crash from the corner and sees her rifling through a closet (why some rooms have these little storage closets is _still_ beyond him). She steps out holding another batch of pillows, anxiety radiating off her in waves. Her head snaps around the room in a panic before their eyes meet.  
  
She looks wild. A little sweaty and a lot dishevelled. Her gown hangs off her shoulders lopsided and she’s barefoot. Her eyes are huge, pupils swallowing up her pretty hazel irises and he knows, _just knows,_ she’s in the throes of another hallucination.  
  
So it doesn’t come as a surprise when she stops dead in her tracks, stands stock still and asks exactly what he’s come to expect.  
  
“Alpha?”  
  
It doesn’t bother him anymore. Doesn’t fill him with dread or terror the way it did the first time. Doesn’t even make the puzzle pieces float in his head. He just accepts it for what it is and maybe, _just maybe,_ he was looking forward to hearing that word directed at him in that saccharine voice.  
  
He _wants_ to be a good physician. Wants to ensure her safety. Approach her cautiously and inject her gently. He’s even made up his mind that that’s exactly what he’d do before sliding into the room. Except there’s a part of him, a deep down buried part of him that freezes under her gaze. Or perhaps it’s her words that give him pause.  
  
Like her scent, which is impossibly rich here, steeped in the air so he can smell nothing _but_ , the word pierces through him. Pins him like a lepidopterist’s specimen. It’s not just a word anymore, it holds a meaning he isn’t able to articulate. Doesn’t have words for because they simply don’t exist for the way his body responds. It’s jarring the way his entire system begins to vibrate for her (because of her?).  
  
Was it always like this? Or is he becoming more aware of his draw to her? Sure she’s the 0.01% he finds appealing, and their conversations have done nothing but solidify his attraction to her. If he were to venture a guess, the concrete was poured and cured before he’d left her the very first time. But this pull isn’t like that. It’s not natural. It’s … unnatural. Do the welts have anything to do with it?  
  
 **_Mate_** _.  
  
_ _Not now!  
  
_ He swallows thickly, takes a breath through his mouth if only to gain a modicum of control. To gain his bearings and find his center amid the crashing waves of sensation and urges battering his body. It helps, if only a little. Instead of zinging his brain like a fucking orgasm it coats his tongue and lingers there. Like the aftertaste of excellent gin that continues to bloom on his taste buds after he’s swallowed. The bouquet opening up to let him taste the nuances. The creaminess of the vanilla, not spicy but somehow thick and milky with a sweetness that isn’t cloying but definitely lingers. The exotic tone of her jasmine, floral but sensuous and warm all at once.  
  
“Hello, Rey,” he tries. The sound comes out hoarse and broken. Like just the smell of her has him piss drunk and sounding like he’s smoked 3 packs of cigarettes in the matter of an hour.  
  
Just what the fuck has he been reduced to?   
  
No, this isn’t what’s going to happen. He’s _not_ going to let some good perfume and the (oddly timed) arousal straining his jeans control him. He’s _not_ a fucking animal. He’s Dr. Ben Solo. The most sought after diagnostician in North America. The man who is _always_ in control.  
  
 **_Keep repeating that to yourself while denying your biology.  
  
_ ** _Shut up!  
  
_ He’s _going_ to solve this medical mystery. He’s _going_ to cure not just his patient but himself and Dameron. He’s _going_ to get her to calm down and he’s _going_ to inject whatever the fuck Dr. Mitaka gave him to prep her for surgery.  
  
Because that’s the next logical step to getting answers today.  
  
She drops the lumpy pillows and walks towards him. Step by inquisitive step, his presence seems to consume her, to give her focus as she approaches (not that her presence isn’t all-consuming to him). Stopping inches before him and … what the fuck is she doing? Sniffing?  
  
Her head sweeps in an upward arc, eyes closing as she uses her sense of smell (of all fucking things) to … what?   
  
Why is his chest rumbling? Is he … Jesus Christ he’s _enjoying_ it.  
  
“Alpha?” she repeats. This time demurely. Her eyes locking onto his half-lidded and utterly fucking desirous. His dick twitches in his pants and he has an overbearing urge to throw all caution to the wind. To pin her down in that mess of blankets and fuck her senseless.  
  
 **_Do it.  
  
_ ** _Shut up, I’m trying to think!  
  
_ What he does next defies the laws of logic. The laws of medicine and … he’s pretty sure every societal norm outlined and stamped into constitution. He’s not even sure it’s him controlling his body, only that it’s on autopilot.  
  
No, autopilot would still give him some level of control. His body’s been effectively hijacked.   
  
His nostrils flare as he takes in a deep inhale, mimicking her actions. He lets her scent wash over him. Lets the sweet, heady perfume of his patient seep into every pore of his body and rebuild his genetic makeup.   
  
Perfume can’t be doing this, can it? Where the fuck did she get this stuff? Is this some kind of shaman pheromone infused man-trap concoction? It’s potent and it’s dizzying and he’s most _definitely_ drunk on it.   
  
He pulls his hand out of his pocket, the one that’s not currently gripping a syringe like it’s trying to draw blood from stone. With the gentlest whisper of a touch, a gentleness he isn’t even aware he possesses, he pushes her hair back. Runs his thumb over her jaw only to relish in the warmth of her skin, the sturdy bone of her mandible and its delicate sculpt. Fingers slipping around her neck until they cradle the back of her head. Until his thumb can sweep down just below her ear where her lesion is.  
  
 **_Not lesions.  
  
_ ** _Fine, welts.  
  
_ He doesn’t know why. It barely makes sense but there’s a part of him that instinctively knows touching her there will ease her mental anguish. His rational brain offers a few choice words on how it’s a bad idea. How every time he’s touched the welts she’s devolved into a state of hallucination. Then again, she’s currently in the throes of one so … it’s time to test another theory.   
  
He gives in to this baser urge and lets his thumb stroke over the welt. Ghosting back and forth in a soothing action. It’s not quite massaging but not quite a whispered touch.   
  
It’s the gentle caress his Bubbee used to rub on his back when they’d snuggle and she’d read him bedtime stories while his parents were off at some black-tie fundraiser. Which is to say his father would be sitting at the bar getting wasted off whatever high end scotch was flowing freely while his mother made her rounds laughing haughtily with this multi-millionaire or other. It’s comforting and it’s intimate and it’s familiar.  
  
An act that you wouldn’t bestow on a stranger. An act that a stranger wouldn’t be responding to the way she is.  
  
She’s closing her eyes and sighing, leaning into the touch. Her body seems to be swaying closer to him. So he might be doing the same in return. Closing his eyes and swaying closer to her. So much so that he doesn’t find himself surprised when he feels the warmth of her cheek press against his chest. Nor does he find himself caring despite his usual reservations due to hygiene. He finds that he quite enjoys it, actually.  
  
The hand he’d been clutching the syringe with releases its hold, opting to wrap around her back instead and pull her in closer.   
  
Somewhere in the recesses of his conscious (sane) mind, he realizes he’s being _way_ too intimate with a patient. Someone who’s contagious (it chooses to supply, though it seems to have no further plans of moving him to action). He also realizes that his thumb strokes coincide with a repetitive blooming of her perfume. With each pass a new wave is released into the air. Like that little welt is the source of the scent and it’s her _body_ producing it, not something manufactured and spritzed out of a bottle. Which is preposterous and yet...   
  
He continues stroking the welt. Continues holding her and maybe even rocking their bodies. His hand _may_ be splaying across her back, relishing in the size difference and how small she feels against him. How his fingers span across the small of her back. He _may_ be making that rumbling sound in his chest that he can’t quite understand. And he _may_ be pressing his nose into the top of her head and inhaling deeply.   
  
But he won’t analyze any of this. Noooooo siree Bob.   
  
He’s just comforting a patient. This is part of getting to the end goal. Namely getting her prepped for op. That’s good reasoning. That’s why he’s doing this. He’s getting nothing out of this for himself. Nothing whatsoever.  
  
 **_Keep telling yourself that while you comfort our mate.  
  
_ ** _For the last fucking time...  
  
_ His skin that had felt too tight only minutes before feels good again. Like it’s his own. His headache has subsided. His sense of smell relaxed now that it’s been thoroughly drenched in the scent of what he’s starting to think of as home.   
  
Somehow, all the irritation that’s been building in the last 48 hours, even with the brief lull of release and decent medication, manages to melt off him. Manages to make him feel like himself again. Like he’s finally gotten a good night’s sleep and managed to wake up 10 years younger.  
  
He feels her take a long, deep breath and expel it slowly. Feels her body begin to stiffen and pull away.  
  
Does he want to let go? Not particularly. But he feels more like himself again so maybe she does too.  
  
She retreats only a fraction. Not enough to break contact but enough to tilt her head up and meet his eyes. It’s startling to see them back to normal. To see the stormy grey green of an angry ocean in her irises instead of the stark black. To see them this close. If he just tilts a little to the…  
  
 **_Dewit.  
  
_ ** _Nope!  
  
_ “Hi,” she whispers, taking an open mouthed breath.  
  
“Welcome back,” he can’t help the way his lips tug into a crooked smile.   
  
She snorts inelegantly and pulls back a little more, wincing in the process and grabbing at her stomach. Her eyes flit around the room, catching on the pile of blankets she’s made before her mouth settles into a scowl.  
  
“I did that, didn’t I?”  
  
Ben only nods, that smile still there. Why is he still smiling like a fucking buffoon?  
  
 **_Mate is beautiful.  
  
_ ** _Jesus fuck, shut up already!  
  
_ Her eyes drop down to see a few beads of blood at her feet, then up to her wrists which she turns to analyze. Another scowl.  
  
“Fucking hell. Dr. Bonaparte, do you mind?”  
  
Aah there she is, the feral she-wolf gremlin he likes to banter with so much.  
  
He nods tersely before rummaging through a cart for supplies. He pulls out some strip gauze and disinfectant. Rights the IV and drags it along with him while he motions towards her bed.   
  
She makes her way over without so much as a peep, huffing frustratedly as she plunks her body down on the edge and turning her wrists up for him.   
  
He only rolls up a stool and begins mending her wounds. Cleaning it gently with a swab and re-inserting the catheter, hooking her back up to her IV. Clamps the pulse oximeter back onto her opposite forefinger then proceeds to wrap her wrists with gauze for good measure. Relishing in the warmth of her wrists in his hand. The smallness of them.  
  
Come to think of it, she’s a little too warm…  
  
She winces which makes him pull back fearing he’s hurt her. Only he hasn’t touched her roughly. If anything, he’s taken more care with her in the last 5 minutes than any patient before. Ever.   
  
She keels over a little and grabs her abdomen with her free hand like she’s cramping.  
  
“You feeling alright?”   
  
He knows she’ll bullshit him. Knows she’ll deflect because somehow he feels like he’s known her his whole life. Like she’s cut from the same cloth, made up of whatever he’s made of and all that jazz. Because he’d do exactly the same thing. Deflect and downplay. Maybe pepper in one snide remark or other for good measure.  
  
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” she hiccups, face contorted in pain, “probably just … y’know,” she exhales tightly, “lady stuff. Nature’s monthly miracle, riding the crimson wave ‘n all. Mind hitting me with an acetaminophen doc Solo?”  
  
“Ben,” he doesn’t know why he’s offering this, “just Ben’s okay.”  
  
Reaching back for the cabinet he almost misses it. The way her eyes light up and she smiles a wholesome smile before she thinks better of it and schools her features back to impassive.  
  
“Alright, _Ben_ ,” she exhales again scrunching her nose, “hurts … got anything for that?”  
  
Her words are tight, as though delivered through gritted teeth. They’re accompanied by a tiny grunt, one that sounds an awful lot like an _oof_.  
  
“You know you’re going into surgery, right?”  
  
If Hux didn’t tell her about the surgery he swears he’ll knock that prick into the 7th level of hell Mortal Kombat style. He’ll do it so fucking hard that ominous voice will purr ‘fatality’ for him.  
  
She nods, face contorted in pain.   
  
“I can’t give you anything that could interfere with the anesthetic. Your dosages have already been organized by the anesthesiologist,” he states calmly, “I can, however get it started. It’ll have the fringe benefit of helping you with your cramps for now.”  
  
She folds over the side of the bed, one arm grasping her middle, the other clutching the thin mattress. Muttering something along the lines of ‘never hurt this bad before’ and ‘feels like I’m on fire’.   
  
There’s a niggling voice at the back of his head that’s screaming he take care of his mate. That she needs him.   
  
Nope. He’s seen what giving that voice control looks like. He’s witnessed her in the throes of hysteria and hallucination. Knows the voice’s association with the state. If that is all part of whatever she’s passed on to him, he won’t give it the reins.  
  
Nope, nope, nope. Eat a dick and fuck off.  
  
“I’m going to give you this,” he pulls the syringe out, “okay?”  
  
Her head tilts up from her folded position, eyes teary and wide, maybe even a little fearful. A quick look at the offered needle before she squeezes her eyes shut in pain, swallows hard and gives him a nod.  
  
Gone is the wild gremlin, replaced with a more placid creature. Like an animal that knows it’s neared the end. No more fight. Eyes begging to be put out of its misery.  
  
He flips the cap off and injects it through the catheter, sending a silent thank you to whatever medical deity has granted him this peaceful moment.  
  
When he’d walked in, he’d been sure the only course of action was direct injection. Maybe he’d have to wrestle her and he certainly expected to get slapped or bitten. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway since he’s already got whatever she has. Sure, he lives a perfectly calculated life but he knows that taking chances and standing in the line of fire is sometimes necessary for patients. He was willing and ready to do that when he’d cleared the threshold to her room. He certainly did _not_ expect it to be a calm administration.  
  
“You’re going to start feeling a little dizzy,” he offers softly, “go ahead and lie back for me, Rey.”  
  
He switches out the catheter once he’s emptied the concoction while she leans back onto the bed. He can see her face relaxing a smidge so in response he grabs the corner of the blanket and pulls it over her.   
  
If there’s morphine in this mix, she’ll get the shivers. That shit hits fast and hard but he doesn’t know what’s in Dr. Mitaka’s cocktail and he won’t have his mate uncomfortable.  
  
Wait what?  
  
“Your bedside manner’s improved,” she offers with a tiny smirk. Eyes still pressed closed but much more relaxed.  
  
“Glad to hear I’m able to satisfy your requirements today princess.”  
  
She smiles, sighing back into her pillow. “You weren’t here today,” she adds dreamily.  
  
“I…” well, what do you have to say for yourself Ben?  
  
 **_You were masturbating in our mate’s bed.  
  
_ ** _You’re really going to need to learn to shut up if we’re going to coexist.  
  
_ “I was doing … research,” yeah that’s good, not a lie but not a truth either.  
  
“The hospital has a library? You nerd.” It comes out as a huff of a laugh. Too lazy to be what she’d probably intended to be snarky and as a result comes out breathy. It’s not meant to be sexual but it doesn’t stop him from hearing the undertone.  
  
“How do you think I got here?” He chuckles lowly as he wheels his stool closer, reaching his hand across to take hers.  
  
It takes nothing of him to interlace their fingers. And it takes nothing of her to accept. Neither paying attention to the physical contact, only accepting it at face value. Deep in the recesses of his consciousness, he realizes that voice might be … purring?  
  
“I thought,” her head lolls, rolling on the pillow to face him directly, “... osmosis? That’s how I did it. Slept on my books and let my brain soak it all up.”  
  
“I suppose that’s why you work in Alaska and I work here,” he jests, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.  
  
She laughs softly, Her catheter hand swats his with the gentlest touch, “ass.”  
  
He watches her breathing even out. Feels the tension melt off her. Is it possible to also smell it? Is it also possible that he’s so comfortable, so relaxed in this little bubble that he feels himself start to doze?  
  
“How did my pee test go?”  
  
He blinks a few times, stupefied. Pee test? What pee test?   
  
Oh.  
  
“I’m happy to inform you that you’re not pregnant.”  
  
She scoffs, a small sound with the way she’s starting to drift off, “told you so.”  
  
Ben leans his head on the safety rail, tilting his head lazily to look at her. “You were right,” he concedes, and somehow, it doesn’t bother him one bit, “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”  
  
A tired little snuff of a laugh escapes her. “Well,” a yawn, “if it isn’t Dr. Bonaparte apologizing. Do you think they have cameras in here? I’d like a copy of that recording. Bet I could sell copies for a pretty penny.”  
  
“They’d also have caught your embarrassing attempt at merchandising our shitty blankets in the corner there,” he motions their clasped hands towards the mess of blankets and pillows. Her wrist soft and pliant, willingly bending to his motion.  
  
“Touché.” Another yawn.   
  
They remain quiet for a few moments. Nothing but the slow monotonous beep of her heart rate monitor and the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead. There’s the barely there drone of unintelligible voices from the hallway. The muffled sound of traffic far away outside. But mostly, there’s the sound of his heart beating evenly in his chest.  
  
“S-smell good...” she tries tiredly. He sees her chest rise on a deep breath, a content smile settle on her lips.  
  
“Shhh,” his thumb strokes over the soft skin of her index finger, “sleep little one.”  
  
She sighs dreamily. Maybe mumbles something along the lines of ‘yes Alpha’, he can’t be sure.   
  
But she heeds his words. She sleeps. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys guys guys ... Dr. Solo doesn't relinquish control that easily. His Alpha has an uphill battle ahead. Or maybe Doc Solo does? Someone cue Michael Buffer's 'let's get ready to rumbleeeeeeee'.
> 
> Also ... 'm looking at taking a temperature check. Some fics have dual mating bites, others just Alpha to Omega. I've been teetering between which route to take. So, what do you think? Let him deliver the Solo chomp? Or give him one in return?
> 
> Also, wtf is this stuff?  
> [Prednisone](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prednisone)  
> [Hippocratic Oath](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hippocratic_Oath)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That obnoxious inner voice may or may not be groaning in annoyance._
> 
> _Good. If you’re going to try to hijack Dr. Benjamin Solo, you’ll need to prepare for guerrilla warfare. Rey had called it sarcasm. Ben admitted annoyance was his preferred method of rendering a disease useless._
> 
> _**We’re not useless.** _
> 
> _You’re unwanted._
> 
> _**You won’t say that once we get mate.** _
> 
> Why does he even bother? It’s like arguing with a caveman. Every rebuttal ends with some mention or other of this ‘mate’ business.
> 
> _**It’s not business. It’s vital to our survival.** _
> 
> _That’s exactly what a sentient virus would say._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well ... look who the cat dragged in.
> 
> Apologies for the delay. I wanted to take the time to write out the story in full before continuing. So, the good news is that it's now fully written. We're going a chapter a day until we close it out. The bad news is ... chapter count's gone up (shocker).
> 
> And just in case there might be confusion ... Ben's Alpha is starting to voice opinions more strongly. Ben's inner monologue is italicized. His Alpha's is both italicized and bolded. Writing their interactions has been ... probably the funnest thing I've ever written in my life. It only gets better from here STG.
> 
>  **CW:** Chapter contains a section dedicated to surgery in semi-graphic detail.

The observation room feels small. _Too_ small.   
  
The operating room below the angled windows is a flurry of motion. All the monitors are dark. There’s a slew of OR nurses and Dr. Mitaka shuffling around his patient’s sleeping form. Instruments being laid out, sanitized, organized, shifted from one cart to another. A head shaken, a tray moved. A nod, an instrument adjusted _just so_ to align perfectly besides its comrades.   
  
The bright light of the honeycombed surgical lamps bathe her body in a pure white aura. She looks peaceful down there, like she’s sleeping in a meadow under a midday summer sun. If she decided to wear a surgical cap and a hospital gown to frolic that is - which he kind of wouldn’t put past her. Yet she looks peaceful sleeping, even if her mouth is open and she might be drooling a little. Somehow it only serves to both turn him on and set him on edge in equal measures.   
  
It feels wrong, subjecting her to surgery. There’s a part of him that rages against it and begs for him to put a stop to the whole tirade. He has a fleeting suspicion it’s that obnoxious voice that keeps calling her the ‘M’ word which he won’t intone (even internally) for fear it’ll rear its head. Truth is, he needs to know. Needs to understand what those things are and get to the bottom of it. They need to open up the lesions…  
  
 **_Not lesions.  
  
_ ** _I was wondering when you’d chime in.  
  
_ Fine, welt. Hux needs to open one up so they can have a look at what lies beneath. If the MRI picked up nothing it only means there’s no structural issues. Now they’ll get to see what’s under them in person. Find the source of the inflammation, because he’s certain now that it’s not allergic dermatitis or plaque psoriasis.   
  
And if _that_ doesn’t yield visual results? Well, a biopsy won’t hurt and they’ll already be at ground zero. Because he’s also convinced that the welts are 100% connected to whatever ails her. Logically, surgery is a win-win situation.  
  
 **_I can tell you what they are.  
  
_ ** _You’re going to shut up.  
  
_ His inner battle is cut short when he notices Dr. Mitaka shifting her arm to adjust her catheter. It makes his teeth clamp tight. Clenching so hard he hears them squeak, hears his jaw crackle from the sheer force.  
  
“Hey,” a hand curls around his forearm gently, “relax, we’ll figure it out, Solo. No need to devolve into your neanderthal self.”  
  
Aah, Tico.   
  
When did she even come in? She’s both the smallest of his team and the loudest. Hux usually slinks in silently like an albino snake. Dameron is equally stealthy with the exception of his squeaky hospital crocs he insists on wearing. Tico? Well, she usually blows in like a hurricane. All scattered papers and loud laughter (unless she’s annoyed, at which point she shows up braying whose ever name is in her crosshairs).  
  
“I’m fine,” he admonishes, but neither his tone nor delivery match his words.  
  
“Oh really,” her flippant tone doesn’t help either, “because from where I’m standing you look like you’re on the cusp of going feral.”  
  
 _No I’m not.  
  
_ **_Yes we are.  
  
_ ** _I told you to shut up.  
  
_ A prep nurse shifts the surgical lights to get better lighting on their patient’s neck. It has the unintended effect of blocking Ben’s view and he feels himself stiffen with annoyance. A trickle of anger slow-dripping into his veins, making his fingers twitch.  
  
Punching the communications button he snarls, “get the lights out of the way.”  
  
“Solo,” Tico’s hand again, why the _fuck_ does she insist on touching him? It makes his hair stand on end. “I’m serious.”  
  
Below, the offending nurse has already re-adjusted the light, throwing an apologetic look up to the observation room while mentally calculating whether his line of sight is blocked. A little tilt, a head jerk between the observation room and the patient, a few more adjustments and she moves away content all parties have been placated.  
  
Ben’s not though. He’s definitely not placated. There’s a niggling sensation at the base of his neck, like his neanderthal hindbrain is sensing … what? Danger? That’s preposterous. He’s perfectly safe in a tiny observation chamber _inside_ a hospital. What could possibly be wrong?  
  
“I said I’m fine Tico. Don’t you have an unsuspecting victim to prick with allergens?”  
  
“Ha, there he is,” she snorts lightly, “I’m actually done for the day. Came in here to watch a bit of the surgery but it looks like you’re focused enough for the both of us.”  
  
She withdraws her hand in favour of rummaging inside her purse. Pulling out a little silver tin, she proceeds to open it, dab her middle finger in the paste then smear it all over her lips.  
  
It smells … soft. Like honey and vanilla and a hint of mint. It’s nice but unlike the other scents he’s been assaulted with, it’s neither overbearing nor organic in nature. It’s just sort of there. Unintrusive.  
  
If you’d have asked him about smells and scents a week ago, he wouldn’t have paid much attention. He’s mostly tone (nose?) deaf to that stuff unless it happens to be either really good or really bad perfume ... or someone who gratuitously sprays their chosen scent like a concession to actual bathing. He would have chalked Tico’s little tin off as a fragranced concoction, the scent of which is meant to hide the chemical stench of the product’s natural state, for example.   
  
Now? He’s over-sensitive. His sense of smell heightened to a degree that’s bordering on obscene. He sits there looking at the little tin, watching her ring finger glide over her lips in confusion, waiting for the olfactory assault to manifest.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
“Lip balm,” she holds the tin up and she wiggles it in front of his face. Was he staring too long? God dammit Dr. Benjamin Solo does _not_ stare.   
  
He works his jaw and presses his lips into a firm line, willing himself back to normal. Focuses on the tin she’s hovering in front of his face. Honey Trap it reads, Lush the stamped logo adds.   
  
“Went to grab those shampoo bars she has and picked this up at the same time. They’re _divine._ ”  
  
Aah, well that explains it.  
  
He wants to ask if Hux likes them too but refrains. A little smirk threatening the corners of his mouth before he forces it away.   
  
Bracing the topic of this relationship with Tico wouldn’t be nearly as fun as with Hux. She’ll downplay it, of course. Because she’s good at that kind of thing. Taking his sarcastic jabs and disarming them with her own. Oversimplifying the punchline of his joke to take the humour out of it … on purpose. It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as watching Hux bluster and cycle through various shades of red like a confused octopus.  
  
No. It would devolve into an exchange that wouldn’t be as fulfilling, wouldn’t be as grand as Hux’s reaction. So he contends himself with smirking internally and nodding his head.  
  
“Wanna tell me why you were practically growling when I came in here?”  
  
 _Nope.  
  
_ “Wasn’t growling,” he grunts, eyes trailing back into the OR where Hux is still woefully absent and Dr. Mitaka is just leaning back against the wall watching the only lit screen with their patient’s vitals.   
  
“Yeah you were.” He can hear her smug smile behind her words.  
  
“Wasn’t,” he he throws coolly, “and where the fuck is Hux?”  
  
She sighs, “had to get changed. Should be in any minute now.”  
  
Of course the prick needs a fucking lifetime to change. Because his staple outfit (3 seasons of the year) of turtlenecks and slacks topped with his white coat needs to stay on until the last possible second. And he’s probably steaming and hanging the garments _just so_ in his locker because that’s the type of anal douche he is. Probably busted out a brush to clean his obnoxiously clean suede oxfords too.   
  
Ben settles for a sigh and a roll of the neck to test the tightness that’s starting to creep back in. Eyes darting down to his now streaked Jordans. He licks his thumb and proceeds to try wiping the streak only to make a bigger mess, earning a deepened scowl.   
  
The stainless steel door below swings open below. Hux strides in like a man reborn with his hands casually raised in the air. Cerulean blue scrubs, matching scrub cap, mask and protective glasses all clashing harshly against his hair and skin.   
  
He looks calm. Focused and confident. A far cry from the blustering idiot that usually sits cowering at their scrum table. His surgical tech appears close on his heels with a pair of gloves, fitting them onto Hux’s bony grim reaper-esque fingers with practiced precision.   
  
“Right on cue” Tico clucks, “now will you tell me why you were growling?”  
  
“For the last time Rose, I wasn’t growling.”  
  
 _Shit that came out as a growl.  
  
_ “See,” she shifts in her seat and fuck he already knows he’s given himself away, “you just used my first name. You only do that when you either want something or your frustration has reached a boiling point.”  
  
Her hand drifts to her purse to deposit the little tin, then she shifts in the squeaky seat to face him head on. He won’t turn though. Won’t give her the satisfaction of addressing him face to face. Nope!  
  
“Seeing how I’m both off the clock and in no position to give you anything of relevance regarding our case ... I’m going to assume it’s the latter. So,” he can feel her smirk, _fuck_ , “what’s got you in a knot?”  
  
 _Dammit she’s good.  
  
_ **_Not as good as mate.  
  
_ ** Ben releases a long stream of air through his nose, runs his palm over his face roughly as he watches Rey’s neck get prepped.   
  
The surgical tech spreads the orange tinted antiseptic solution across the tender skin he’d stroked less than half an hour ago. He feels his breath hitch, his hackles rise again for the umpteenth time in 10 minutes. Fingers twitching, ready to pound the communication button again. On the brink of bursting into the OR and cancelling the surgery.  
  
Nope. This isn’t happening. Whatever the fuck she gave him will _not_ make him lose his shit.  
  
He takes a few deep breaths, soothed by the puff of nasal spray he’d perused when he’d entered the room. Soothed by the quiet sounds of stainless steel being shuffled in the OR and the memory of their earlier shared closeness. The lingering scent of her perfume that wafts off the fabric of his shirt. It helps. Not significantly but enough to lock away the beast that’s battering against his mental defences.  
  
“I don’t know,” he answers Tico honestly, “I just…” _wait a minute_ , “Rose, do you … can I see your neck?”  
  
He finally turns to look at her, calmer now that he’s got something tangible to latch onto. It’s a flimsy thread at best but it’s enough to reroute his attention and soothe the simmering rage.  
  
Tico looks at him quizzically, brows furrowed and eyes squinted with mistrust. “Alright, I’ll bite, but you best be getting to the point quick Solo.”  
  
He scoffs as she shifts again to flare the collar of her jacket, clearing her throat softly like it’s the sound of a professional medical exchange. At first her neck looks perfectly normal. The expanse of her warm tawny skin stretches flawlessly without a hint of a blemish. Only a few horizontal lines denoting she’s spent plenty of time reading (or texting … but he’s pretty sure Tico’s as big a bookworm as he is).  
  
“May I?” he gestures towards her neck. She purses her lips but nods. The only indication of her irritation (and make no mistake about it, his immunologist is _definitely_ irritated right now, he’s no idiot) is a cocked brow that threatens to meet her hairline.   
  
Reaching forward, he sweeps her hair off her neck to expose the skin just below her ear.   
  
And there it is. Like the flashing lights of a slot machine indicating you’ve won the jackpot. If the prize was being infected with some unknown disease, that is. A welt that’s a little pink but not as aggravated as their patient’s.  
  
He mashes his lips together, chewing on his lower lip and lets out a long hum in consternation. Runs his thumb over the little welt to test his reaction theory only to draw none. She’s completely indifferent to the touch, if not a smidge more annoyed than she’d been prior to the contact. Not that he couldn’t all but taste her annoyance before.  
  
Interesting.  
  
He pulls his hand back and clasps his hands between his open knees. If he hangs his head, well, it’s because this is getting out of hand.   
  
He’s been careless. How else can he explain that he’s let his neurologist _and_ immunologist catch whatever their patient had? Surgeon too, most probably. Also Finn and God only knows how many others have been exposed.  
  
He’s been _blind_.   
  
Blinded by his own ego. His staunch belief that he’s invincible and that his methods are watertight. That he’d accounted for every variable when, clearly, he’d let something contagious slip right through the cracks and infect his team.   
  
He groans loud and long in frustration.  
  
“Alright, are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or are you going to play the wounded beast?”  
  
 _Wounded beast?  
  
_ **_We like that name.  
  
_ ** _Shut up … just, shut up.  
  
_ “Go home, Rose,” he swallows thickly, “and call Dameron. Ask him about his neck.”  
  
“No,” the defiance in her tone is palpable. Sizzles in the small observatory and he _knows_ he’s pushing her beyond her usual boundaries. But...  
  
“Yes,” he swats his hand dismissively. Lazily.  
  
“No,” she repeats a little more forcefully, “you don’t get to act all weird, touch my fucking neck like I’m some test subject, then dismiss me with cryptic messages.” From the corner of his eye, he can see she’s straightened out her back, that her chest is puffing out and that she’s just about to lay into him.   
  
It could be a good outlet. An argument _could_ be a nice release for his pent up aggression. But he’s too wound up to guarantee the win - Ben Solo does not enter the metaphorical ring without being _certain_ he’ll rise victorious - and he’s definitely not in the mood. “Now talk.”  
  
“Rose…”  
  
“Start talking dammit,” she stomps her foot, “I get it. I’m expendable and below you. I’m a dumbass and unworthy of your medical esteem. Too stupid to understand the complexity of the wonderous Solo diagnostics process.   
  
“I get it, really, I do. But right now we’re not playing a game of power dynamics. Right now there’s something about our case that’s weighing you down. Enough to act weird and out of character. Like growl and call me by my first name _four times_ or touch my neck.”  
  
She stops to take a breath, clearly worked up which … isn’t unlike her, though this outburst feels more … visceral.  
  
“That’s not to say that Solo in thought is a foreign concept,” she continues more calmly. “But it _is_ unnerving when you act like,” her hand performs a rough wiping motion, “ _that._ All defeated and shit. That’s not you.”  
  
“Fine,” he drops his face into his palms, “you have welts.”  
  
A long, pregnant pause renders the small observation room too quiet. Quiet enough to hear the surgical team crack a vanilla joke through the speakers. Something about playing ‘stairway to heaven’ next time they perform surgery together. There’s the haughty laugh of the anesthesiologist and a light titter from the surgical nurse. Hux chortling that it won’t be necessary unless it’s an emergency heart transplant and he’s not _that_ guy.  
  
“We… _we_ have welts. Like our patient,” he continues, one hand sweeping up to expose his own neck, “see?”  
  
Another pause. Instruments clatter and a cart is wheeled around to Hux’s side. A few switches are flipped and the monitors all come to life with the exception of one. The one that feeds directly from the scope for a closeup view.  
  
“It’s contagious,” he finally relents, “whatever she has is contagious and we’ve caught it.”  
  
“That’s…”  
  
“Impossible, I know,” he heaves a sigh, sagging back into the chair, “that’s what I thought at first too. She’s not coughing. Not spewing anything. Other than the slow leak of her lesions-”  
  
 **_Not lesions.  
  
_ ** “-sorry, welts … there’s nothing about her that would’ve raised any flags. Whatever she has doesn’t follow the standard path of infection. Doesn’t prescribe to textbook transmission.”  
  
To her credit, Tico _does_ touch her welts and only scowls slightly. Ever the image of professionalism, she leaves the fear for her own life at the door to ask the most pragmatic question, “how far do you think it’s spread?”  
  
He groans again, long and loud like a wounded animal. Because he _is_ wounded. His pride is wounded thanks to his penchant for believing himself infallible. His person is wounded because his carelessness has opened him up to an unknown infection. His mate is wounded and laying on an operating table about to be sliced open...  
  
 _Wait, what? No, no, no. This is not how this is going to go.  
  
_ There’s another groan. This one internal like he’s wounded that intrusive voice in his head. _Good!  
  
_ “Do you want my professional opinion or personal?”  
  
His immunologist pretends to consider while Ben and the rest of the OR staff watch the technician continue to run the sponge heavy-handedly over his patient’s skin.  
  
“I already know what your medical opinion will be. So the personal one.”  
  
 _Aah, there it is.  
  
_ “Farther than my professional opinion _or_ ego is willing to admit to. And that’s not accounting for her previous stays at other hospitals across the coast.”  
  
She releases a long huff in response, like a concession or emptying of her chest cavity to make space for this new information. “That’s…”  
  
“Don’t...” how is he going to word this without sounding like a self-serving ass?   
  
“If - if you’re going to snark about it, and I’m sure you will … would you mind waiting until we’ve solved the case?”  
  
It’s an admission of failure. Out loud nonetheless. Something he’s never done. Not with his team, not with anyone at the hospital. Not even with his own mother. But he feels it. Deject at his own ineptitude and clutching at straws to preserve whatever he has left of his self-worth. He’s essentially resorted to begging for a sliver of understanding from someone he lends none to.  
  
 _Pathetic.  
  
_ Tico purses her lips, takes a quick glance down to the OR, eyes tracing over the shape of Hux with a sad tilt and a heavy exhale.  
  
“Alright,” she pats his forearm, “you seem stressed enough for both of us. I’ll let you be.”  
  
She stands up and straightens out her coat, pulling it over her neck but not before running her fingers over the welts again for confirmation. A small scowl, a purse heaved over her shoulder, a few steps to the door.  
  
“I’ll call Dameron on the way home,” she cracks the door open, “and, Solo? We’ll be alright. You may be a bit rough around the edges but … if there’s anyone who can figure this out, it’ll be you.”  
  
When the door clicks shut behind her, Ben lifts the thumb he’d used to stroke her welt to his nose.   
  
There’s a scent there. It’s warm and ... spicy? Like lily of the valley and cardamom and leather. It’s feminine but strong. Not sweet like Rey’s perfume. It also elicits no reaction from him nor does it assault his senses. Like the lip balm, it’s just sort of … there. Muted.  
  
At least that’s a positive.  
  
He briefly wonders what perfume Tico uses. If she sprays it on her pulse points or just a quick spritz dead center.   
  
His eyes drift to his patient. Over to where the sponge is lathering her welt and bathing it in orange. The place on her body that seems to be the epicentre of that delicious scent.  
  
He’s starting to suspect that _maybe_ there’s no perfume involved at all.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


“Adrenaline,” Hux’s hand extends back towards the surgical nurse while his other hand finishes testing the marked welt’s boundaries. His voice is steady and authoritative as he prods firmly along the black line he’ll use to guide his incision.   
  
Ben’s stomach heaves as he watches Hux maneuver the syringe to inject adrenaline along the edge of the welt. He knows it’s being injected to induce vasoconstriction, thereby reducing bleeding throughout the surgery. That doesn’t stop him from gritting his teeth and suppressing a shiver while his body sits on edge. That obnoxious inner voice reminding him every few seconds this is a bad idea.  
  
It never fails to surprise him. The complete and utter focus Hux has when he’s in the OR. From the blustering rainbow of red in their scrum room to this assertive and fastidious surgeon in the OR, this version is night and day from the Hux he knows. And watching him perform in his element always reminds him just how lucky he is to have a surgeon like Hux on staff.   
  
Yeah, he’s a stuttering mess with half-decent theories outside of the OR. But in there? He’s spectacular. All smooth lines and steady hands. It’s like watching an olympic swimmer in a pool. Like watching Bob Ross paint.  
  
Hux’s fingers press around the injection points, massaging the little bubbles of liquid he’d injected to help the adrenaline along. Dr. Mitaka furrows his brow watching the vitals monitor, taps one of the tubes, nods, then continues to fixate on the screen.  
  
“Scalpel,” Hux drops the syringe onto his surgical tray then holds his hand out again. And just as when he’d asked for the adrenaline, the nurse performs a tightly choreographed ballet to deposit his favoured scalpel into his waiting hand.  
  
Ben swallows hard.  
  
 **_Don’t do it.  
  
_ ** _It’s necessary.  
  
_ **_It’s not. Protect mate.  
  
_ ** “You ready Solo?”  
  
Hux’s eyes shoot up towards the observation deck.   
  
With a shaky hand, Ben presses the communication button to let the mic crackle on. “Scope ready?”  
  
“Yep,” Hux nods in his direction, “just hit the power button on the screen there, you’ll get a live feed from it.”  
  
Ben doesn’t tell Hux he’d already turned the screen on the minute Tico left the room. That would show too much eagerness and he’s in control dammit.   
  
“It’s not my first rodeo,” he admonishes.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
He nods at his surgeon once, then watches with abject horror as Hux returns his attention to his canvas, presses his forefinger to the top of the blade and begins slicing along the dotted line.   
  
It’s a shallow incision. Bloodless thanks to the adrenaline and Hux’s care to both give it time to take and spread. The raw pink of her epidermis parting like warm butter, yielding to the sharp blade wielded with precision.  
  
Ben’s fingers clutch the arms of the chair. Squeezing so tight his knuckles turn white. He hears a creak and a snap but is unable to peel his eyes away from below.  
  
 **_You broke the armrest.  
  
_ ** _I’m busy.  
  
_ **_Just going on record, that damage wasn’t me.  
  
_ ** The screen is still black.  
  
“I’ve got it from here,” the tech leans towards the nurse, “use the scope to give Dr. Solo a close up until Dr. Hux inserts.”  
  
She nods once before the monitor in the observation room starts feeding him a view of the surgical cart. There’s the outline of Hux’s back. His hand working around their patient’s neck. The lip of the tray and the gleam of the stainless steel door in the background. A few jittery seconds later and he’s got a clear and closeup view of Hux’s incision.   
  
The ginger fuck is humming ‘whistle while you work’.  
  
Hux hands off the scalpel, “CO2,” he intones flatly between humming. The tech hands off the requested CO2 laser scalpel and Ben gulps again.   
  
He presses the comm button, “go slow.”  
  
“You got it,” Hux throws while completely zoned into the task at hand. Not missing a single note of the ridiculous tune he’s chosen. It kind of suits him. The vanilla Disney tune rather than something more appropriate.   
  
Then again, what _is_ appropriate music during surgery?  
  
 **_Stairway to heaven?  
  
_ ** _Oh so you_ do _listen...  
  
_ “Loupes,” the command is thrown and before it’s even finished the tech has pushed Hux’s magnifying glasses down onto his nose.  
  
Little puffs of smoke come into view as his surgeon etches another fraction deeper into her skin. With a steady hand he uses little flicks to slowly deepen the incision. Skin giving way ever so slightly under his meticulous dissection.  
  
“Retractor.”  
  
Said instrument finds its way into his empty hand to spread the incision. Her skin flayed to provide an unobstructed view inside the little opening. Hux has the foresight to pull the skin away from the welt instead of settling the retractor directly over it. A thoughtful touch to both Ben as the viewing party, and the patient whose welt they need to analyze instead of excise.   
  
Another set of small cuts. Her skin gives a little more. The laser scalpel etches a little deeper.  
  
“Watch out for the auricular nerve,” Ben scolds like Hux doesn’t already know. He just needs to throw in his 10 cents worth. It makes him feel a little more in control.  
  
“Of course,” his surgeon throws unfazed, “we’ll go slow until we hit subcutis up or see something.” Hux pulls back a smidge, his hand starts reaching back and voice intones “forceps,” but before he’s finished the tech has already deposited a Kelly forcep into his hand.  
  
Said instrument enters the opening and Hux begins scissoring them gently to widen the passage. Ben knows he’s feeling for any invisible abnormalities. The tool becoming a probe of sorts, an extension to his sensitive surgeon’s fingers.   
  
Unsatisfied, his surgeon deposits the forceps back in the tech’s hand before he resumes with the scalpel.  
  
“So,” Hux throws casually, like he’s not currently slicing open his ma- _no no no this isn’t happening_ , his **patient** , “heard you sent Dameron home early.”  
  
Ben groans. Ironically, it’s not in frustration but in release. He’d forgotten how chatty Hux gets during surgery. And though it usually grates his last nerve, It’s a nice reprieve from the tension he seems to be so wrought with.  
  
“I did. We made a … discovery,” Ben reaches over to open the communication link completely, tired of having to press the button for bursts when he could just leave the line open.  
  
Hux snuffs a laugh. “Cryptic. Care to share?”  
  
There’s too many people, he doesn’t want to set off a panic.  
  
Ben leans back in the chair, eyes flitting between the surgery beyond the windows and the close up on the monitor, “maybe later.”  
  
An idea forms just then, as he watches Hux meticulously deepen the incision and pull the retractor a fraction more each time to give them both a clean view inside. So far, nothing. Good a time as any to bring in some levity.  
  
“How’s Rose?”  
  
Hux’s hand wavers. The little puffs of smoke stop and the camera shakes for a fraction of a second.  
  
“Wasn’t she there with you earlier?”  
  
 _Oooh, you’re not deflecting your way out of this one.  
  
_ It really doesn’t help Hux’s case that Ben can see his skin redden. Even if his face is obscured by his mask, the expanse of his neck and arms are exposed by his scrubs. Ben can clearly _see_ the flush as it develops over his pasty skin.  
  
 _Busted.  
  
_ That obnoxious inner voice may or may not be groaning in annoyance.   
  
Good. If you’re going to try to hijack Dr. Benjamin Solo, you’ll need to prepare for guerrilla warfare. Rey had called it sarcasm. Ben admitted annoyance was his preferred method of rendering a disease useless.  
  
 **_We’re not useless.  
  
_ ** _You’re unwanted.  
  
_ **_You won’t say that once we get mate.  
  
_ ** Why does he even bother? It’s like arguing with a caveman. Every rebuttal ends with some mention or other of this ‘mate’ business.  
  
 **_It’s not business. It’s vital to our survival.  
  
_ ** _That’s exactly what a sentient virus would say.  
  
_ “Bring the camera closer,” Ben instructs the nurse. She does so, giving him a close up view of the ruby red flesh of his patient’s neck.  
  
“Tico had to go,” Ben pans back to the conversation with Hux, excitement simmering to the point he’s fighting back the smirk threatening to crack open his face, “did you guys work through theories today?”  
  
“Yep,” Hux answers as he continues to work.  
  
Perfect. He’s focused on the surgery and primed for quick answers.  
  
 _Time for rapid fire.  
  
_ “Anything new?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Did she help with the MRI?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“What time was it at again?”  
  
“3:00 PM.”  
  
 _The moment of truth...  
  
_ “Your place tonight or hers?”  
  
“Hers,” Hux answers _too_ quickly before he realizes exactly what’s slipped out.  
  
The camera shakes and Ben is under the impression that the admission didn’t just rattle Hux but everyone in the OR. Everyone’s eyes snap up to the surgeon who’s stopped working and is staring dumbly at the incision.  
  
He hears a muttered _fucking hell_. Sees the staff quickly avert their eyes in shame.  
  
Deep down inside his pot-stirring demon is cackling uncontrollably.  
  
“How long, Hux?”  
  
His surgeon’s shoulders drop and heave with a sigh. “It’s new,” Hux finally relents. His skin taking on the tint of a radish, so red it almost looks bruised. It’s splotchy on his forearms which tells Ben there’s still wiggle room to make this even more uncomfortable.  
  
“Don’t lie, Hux. It’s not a good look.”  
  
Another series of incisions is made in silence. Rey’s skin parts further yet there’s still nothing on the screen. There’s a heavy exhale.  
  
“Fine, a few months.”  
  
 _That’s better.  
  
_ Hux stops to look around the OR. Everyone bashfully occupying themselves with whatever tasks they’re pretending to be zoned into. Hux sighs again before continuing. “It just sort of … happened. She’s a great girl, y’know.”  
  
 _Oh but I want details.  
  
_ “Why the secrecy?” he prods.  
  
Hux clearly bristles but doesn’t let it affect his work. Hands continue their steady flicks, their gentle wiggle of the retractor. “It’s _not_ secrecy. That’s just what you do before you make things official, Solo. Just because you exchange phone numbers with someone at the bar doesn’t mean you’re automatically exclusive. Nor that you’ll bring them to your next family dinner or start a shared spreadsheet with potential baby names.”  
  
What the fuck? Is he … turning the tables on Ben?   
  
“You date for a while … get to know each other and if it’s worthy of long term commitment you slap the label on it. If you’re sprinting to the finish line, you’re doing it wrong, y’know? I assume you wouldn’t know about that though, would you.”  
  
Now _that_ gets Ben’s back up. He knows perfectly well what this … dating business is. If it’s not his scene that’s a different topic of conversation altogether. Ben’s never seen the point of dusting off a suit and making nice. All it’s ever gotten him are awkward (overpriced) dinners with judgmental women who should count themselves lucky to have his undivided attention. Women who were woefully incapable of capturing it in the first place.  
  
 **_Except one.  
  
_ ** “We don’t work in cubicles, Hux. Relations with a fellow doctor can have serious consequences. What if it doesn’t work out and you’re at each other’s throats?” He tries to goad his surgeon into a reaction.  
  
Hux shrugs, “no different than we already are, huh?”  
  
Well, fuck. That’s a solid point, but he won’t let it go.  
  
“What about emotional outbursts? Jealousy in the long run?”  
  
Now his surgeon shakes his head and chuckles, “still no different than what we already are.” He glances up at Ben, chin tucked so he can look over the top of his loupes. “Look Solo, we just clicked. She’s opinionated and hot headed, yes, but she’s also brilliant. Has a way of looking at the world that I find refreshing. It’s … nice. You should try it.”  
  
“I don’t date. It’s a waste of time,” he growls again.  
  
 **_We have a mate.  
  
_ ** _Oh good, I was wondering when you’d chime in again.  
  
_ “Oh, I agree. But I don’t mean date date…” Hux starts chuckling again while his laser scalpel sears another fraction of a millimeter deeper, “those are social constructs. I can see why you wouldn’t want to if you’re referring to the classic dinner date.”  
  
Hux takes a moment to adjust the retractor. When the fuck did he become this confident … person who spews … sense? And Ben doesn’t mean in the OR. That he’s always known. Just this new wave of calm logic about relationships. The fucker is more awkward with women then Ben. He’s fucking _seen_ it at fundraisers.  
  
The last one was a casino theme (courtesy of his mother). Hux had tried to hit on a new hire in imaging. The exchange went something like this: Hux sauntered over with his slicked back carrot toned hair and obnoxiously stiff tux, ordered himself a martini (shaken, not stirred because he fancied himself a James Bond of sorts at the time). The poor woman was enjoying her fruity umbrella clad cocktail when he so bluntly asked ‘are you a c-reactive protein? Because you have a-cute phase.’ She stared like he’d sprouted a second head because she worked in radiography and had no training with acute inflammation. Stared and stared dumbfounded until he took a sip of his too-strong martini, spat it out all over her chest and turned an uncomfortable shade of vermillion.  
  
Yep. That happened. That guy. That’s the guy that’s somehow making dating sense right now.  
  
“You know what Rose and I’s first date was?”  
  
“You’re willingly going to divulge this information,” Ben asks incredulously, “knowing _full well_ it’ll inevitably be used against you?”  
  
“No more than you’re already going to. Cat’s out of the bag now,” he shrugs, “it was after that Cushing’s case in February. We were both so exhausted being paraded around by your mother that we agreed to order in pizza then locked ourselves up in the breakroom. We hid in there with a large Hawaiian and watched Pacific Rim on mute. Rose gave me a lecture on how the Kaiju are smaller than Godzilla but bigger than Clover. So we made a pact we’d watch all those movies together and things just sort of … steamrolled-”  
  
Well, that’s the most boring…  
  
“- it was nice, you know? Being able to do away with all the pretence of a formal date. Skipping the pomp of putting out only the glossiest, best groomed version of yourself while withholding the things society deems aren’t date-worthy. The awkward getting to know you questions and just … talk. Normally. With someone who just understands you. I’ve … I really care about her.”  
  
Ben’s quiet. Ruminating on the weight of what his surgeon is saying while his eyes remain glued to the screen. Watching the puffs of smoke billow and her delicate skin part.  
  
He’s right. It pains Ben to admit his surgeon might be onto something. Maybe those carefully constructed dinner dates were a way to force a connection. Who’s to say connections exclusively happen at swanky restaurants with over starched linens and decoratively drizzled sauces?  
  
Maybe the best date is a double order of cold rolls and some world class banter...  
  
“And Rose?” he manages to croak out.  
  
“Still stubborn as always, if that’s what you’re getting at. But … I’m fortunate enough that she hasn’t lost interest so maybe she finds me interesting enough too…”  
  
A gasp escapes him. Not because of what Hux has said but because of what’s on the screen.  
  
“Stop!” he bellows. Probably loud enough to be heard without the help of the comm.  
  
The camera closes in on the section Hux has just uncovered. Everyone in the OR pulls a little closer and his surgeon bends to inspect.  
  
There it is. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just a pearl sized sweat gland but the tissue of it seems to have spread. It’s redder, puffier like it’s bloated and seems to be leaking fluid that isn’t blood.  
  
“Swab that,” Ben commands.  
  
“Ben…” Hux turns to him, his visage pale, “that … that’s a mutated sweat gland.”  
  
Hux’s body tilts to the side giving him his first view of the man’s profile. Ben isn’t even surprised at this point. Because just as realization hits his surgeon of what they’re looking at, Ben notices a little welt on the sides of his neck as well.  
  
 _They’re not welts, they’re … glands.  
  
_ **_Bingo._ **

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to dedicate a section of this story to Hux being the stellar surgeon he is. So far he's been painted a bit soft and definitely as Ben's favourite garbage can. It was time he got to shine and fluster our good Dr. Solo.
> 
> We've reached the point where I'm taking our first medical liberty.
> 
> Sweat glands are typically microscopic. Tiny little things in the dermal layer of your skin. For this fic to work, I needed an anatomical body part that has the ability to excrete liquid that's located near the typical gland placements. And since sweat glands are ... well ... glands, they made for the perfect candidate to mutate.
> 
> Again, I'm not a medical professional. I did issue a warning a few chapters back that medical liberties would be taken to make A/B/O fit and here we are! 
> 
> **Further Reading:**   
>  [CO2 Scalpel (aka laser scalpel)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laser_surgery)   
>  [Retractors](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Retractor_\(medical\))   
>  [Auricular Nerve](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_auricular_nerve)   
>  [Kelly Forceps (or forceps in general)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forceps#Kelly_forceps)   
>  [Loupes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loupe)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ben holds the bag up then points at her bed, “may I?”_
> 
> _“Asking for permission?” she covers her mouth with a mocking gasp, “who are you and what have you done with Dr. Solo?”_
> 
> _“Ben,” he corrects with a finger wag, depositing the bag onto a tray and moving towards the head of the bed, “and I think you killed him with your wit.”_
> 
> _Real smooth, Solo._
> 
> _**That … wasn’t half bad, actually.** _
> 
> _As lazily as she’s been flopping around in the bed, she lifts her arms in the air and silently screams her victory. Fists pumping in the air like she’s won a gold medal. It has the unintended effect of making her nose scrunch and lips pucker in a way that gives him pause. Makes him stare for just a second too long imagining other reasons she’d make that face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want them to eat Vietnamese food and be awkwardly smitten babies. And to give his Alpha more screen time. Is that so bad?
> 
> This entire chapter was supposed to be part of the last. In my summary notes it literally went: Surgery, Confrontation w/ Hux re. Tico, Realization they're glands ... then all the stuff below (I'm giving away NOTHING).
> 
> Please, enjoy this date (not date) and a very cranky Alpha's perspective. Thank [McDrogo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McDrogo/works) for the entire last section. It was never in the original draft but now that it's in (thanks to her suggestion), I don't think I can imagine this chapter without it.

_It’s not a date_.  
  
He keeps repeating this to himself as he swings the plain white plastic bag he’s holding, strutting through the halls of ICU with a pep in his step. Like if he says it enough it’ll make it true.   
  
It kind of is, true that is. By definition a date is considered a romantic engagement. Or, at the very least, a form of social engagement with the purpose of finding a romantic connection.  
  
But that’s not what this is. Nope!  
  
There’s a weight that’s been lifted off his shoulders. Even though he’s been awake for well over 12 hours, has gotten frustratingly few answers, has a 5+ hour long flight under his belt, is juggling a diagnosis that he’s not even an inch closer to solving and an ebbing tide of olfactory assaults that have plagued him for the last 24 hours, he feels things are oddly … looking up?   
  
Yeah. Definitely up. And _not_ because it’s a date. Because it’s _not.  
  
_ After sewing up her incision and arguing with Hux about the merits of cauterization (which Ben argued against with every cell in his body), he’d sent his surgeon home to Tico, telling him she’d explain everything.   
  
The man was still visibly shaken by the discovery but maintained his composure until the job was done. Even conceding to _not_ taking a biopsy at Ben’s vehement request (exploded, Ben had roared at his surgeon like an enraged tyrannosaur). He’d only pressed _once_ reminding Ben that mutated tissue is almost always guaranteed to be cancerous. Only to cower seconds later when Ben doubled down that it wasn’t. Deftly working in her stitches without another peep in the contrary. A strangely quick acquiescence considering Ben’s penchant for biopsying literally _everything_.   
  
Oh who is he kidding. Hux whimpered like a little bitch under his thundrous proclamations of murder if he so much as _nipped_ the gland. Meh.  
  
So while the nurses took care of her in recovery and his surgeon slithered out of the hospital, he’d slipped out to run to the Vietnamese restaurant and grab two orders of cold rolls and two orders of bún chà. Soup would still have been too messy so he opted for the next best thing.  
  
The savoury scent of perfectly seasoned pork, pickled veggies and garlic wafting up at intervals and making his stomach growl.  
  
They’re just sharing food. It’s _not_ a date.  
  
 _We’re just going to talk.  
  
_ **_We’re providing for mate.  
  
_ ** The voice doesn’t seem annoyed or contradictory. Instead it seems to purr at the concept of bringing her food and enjoying a meal together. So Ben just shrugs and works his way through the halls, happy to be on the same page with his brain buddy for once.  
  
He gets an odd glance or two from some of the night shift nurses but he ignores them all. Throws one (who’s brave enough to flash a disapproving look at his bag) a particularly harsh glare then slips through her door unbothered.  
  
She’s laying there somewhat listlessly but her head rolls lazily on her lumpy pillow. A ghost of a smile settling over her features when their eyes lock. It hits him then, just as it had earlier this evening. That scent.   
  
A palpable sweetness that manages to cut through the smell of delicious food and the nasal spray he’d used merely an hour ago. It’s not frazzling his mental defences like earlier though. It’s pleasant and calming and soothing all at once.   
  
It’s nice. Like coming home after a long day.  
  
“Hey,” she croaks, eyes bleary like she’s just barely come off the morphine, “how’d it go?”  
  
“Surgery?” he asks a little dumbly only to kick himself mentally. Of course she’s asking about surgery. What else could she be referring to?  
  
“No, the crusades,” she tilts her head defiantly. It has the unintended effect of tugging at her stitches, making her wince.  
  
 _Good to see morphine hasn’t dampened that fiery spirit.  
  
_ “I … uh,” he lifts up the bag, swallows heavily, “thought I could fill you in while I fed you?”  
  
A lazy laugh escapes her lips. It’s accompanied by a slow blink that dredges up a memory of his Bubbee explaining the intricacies of cat behaviour. About how when a cat slow blinks at you it’s a sign of affection. She’d explained it while he sat on her ornate couch, a terrified 5 year old with a fat rescue feline purring in his lap giving him said slow blinks.   
  
“If you keep this up I might be bumping your rating to a 4.5.”  
  
“4.5?” he asks indignantly. Hand pressing into his chest jokingly like she’d wounded. He lets his lips curl into a smile, lets his eyes crinkle in good humour.  
  
“Oh don’t be dramatic. No one _deserves_ a perfect 5,” she sways her arm dismissively, “that’s ridiculous. It’s like handing out participation ribbons at kids sports games. Breeds pussies.”  
  
 **_Mate is dreamy.  
  
_ ** _You need to … shit, I agree.  
  
_ He chuckles lowly, well aware how true her words ring and maybe even a little shocked at just how similar they are. Usually conversation topics are forced. A carefully tailored list of socially acceptable discussion points because he finds nobody quite thinks like him and deviating from the list gets him blank stares and awkward silences.  
  
Except with her, apparently.  
  
Not that he’ll let her know. No no no. Right now Dr. Ben Solo is in charge and he _will_ at the very least wear the mask of control, even if he’s starting to suspect she’s got him wrapped around her finger. The white dinner baggie he’s dangling being a shining example of said finger wrapping.   
  
He’s not even sure he minds...  
  
“What’d you get me?” She’s clearing her throat, biting the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to repress something. A smile, most likely. Judging by the way the corners of her mouth are pinched tight.  
  
Ben holds the bag up then points at her bed, “may I?”  
  
“Asking for permission?” she covers her mouth with a mocking gasp, “who are you and what have you done with Dr. Solo?”  
  
“ _Ben_ ,” he corrects with a finger wag, depositing the bag onto a tray and moving towards the head of the bed, “and I think you killed him with your wit.”  
  
 _Real smooth, Solo.  
  
_ **_That … wasn’t half bad, actually.  
  
_ ** As lazily as she’s been flopping around in the bed, she lifts her arms in the air and silently screams her victory. Fists pumping in the air like she’s won a gold medal. It has the unintended effect of making her nose scrunch and lips pucker in a way that gives him pause. Makes him stare for just a second too long imagining other reasons she’d make that face.  
  
There’s something akin to pure joy in her movements. Sure, she’s putting on a show of the metaphorical win, but … all things considered, she seems happy. So he laughs freely. Something Ben Solo does _not_ typically do. Hands patting around the bedframe in search of that blasted controller to move her into a sitting position.  
  
“You have nice dimples … when you smile,” he hears her say.  
  
Does he fumble the controller and drop it? Does he gawk at her and _maybe_ feel heat creep up his neck? Does that obnoxious voice start chanting _mine mine mine_? Yes. The unfortunate answer is yes.  
  
Their eyes lock and for a brief moment he feels like maybe there’s something there. That maybe she _might_ be interested in _him._ That it _isn’t_ one sided or dependent on her hallucinations. That she might enjoy his presence outside of her irrational plea for her ‘Alpha’.   
  
**_That’s us.  
  
_ ** _Don’t be ridiculous.  
  
_ Her mouth morphs from the soft smile she was sporting into nibbling her lower lip, then a light scoff. “I’m just teasing. Trying to see how many more times I can kill you,” she jokes, swatting his shoulder playfully, “now feed me. I’m _starving_ and you weren’t here all day so I had to eat a sticky cheese sandwich.”  
  
 _Aah, well … wishful thinking Solo.  
  
_ He’s still gawking, though. Yeah. She thinks he has nice dimples, even if it was said in jest.  
  
“Wonderbread is basically edible plastic and I haven’t had processed cheese slices since I was like ... 12? If they’d have given me 5 more minutes with it I think I could have molded it into plasticine.”  
  
 **_Mate mate mate.  
  
_ ** “Ben?” she’s snapping her fingers, “did you hear me? You know what they served me for breakfast this morning? Raisin Bran. With milk. I haven’t had cow’s milk since university. And don’t get me started on raisins. Feed me or risk coming face to face with the beast.”  
  
 _How is she real?  
  
_ **_She’s our mate.  
  
_ ** “Wolverine,” he corrects lightly. It comes out like a squawk, his voice cracking over the W.  
  
“I thought it was a Tasmanian devil?” she bites her tongue smiling. Every single one of her perfect teeth on display. Like a reminder of just how utterly opposite of him she is. “Well, keep up your turtle pace, we’ll both find out soon enough.”  
  
He grins like the cheshire cat. How is she so _good_ at this?   
  
“Cashew milk, right?” he tries again, this time pressing the upright position on the bed controls and watching the frame begin to shift.  
  
She eyes him wearily but the smile on her face remains. “Any nut milk is fine. So?” she pats her belly, “today? Or…”  
  
He suppresses an overwhelming urge to burst out into laughter. No, to climb on top of her and bury his head into the crook of her neck right where the bandage sits over her stitched up welt—   
  
**_Gland.  
  
_ ** _That’s what I said.  
  
_ **_You said welt…  
  
_ ** _You’re a parasite and a nuisance.  
  
_ **_And you’re a stubborn ass. Doesn’t change the fact that they’re glands or that we’re stuck with each other.  
  
_ ** _Look who magically started communicating in full sentences. Don’t you want to remind me of our ma-  
  
_ **_Yes. Get mate.  
  
_ ** —right where he’s starting to suspect the delectable scent of _home_ is coming from.   
  
_Technically_ he could bury his nose into the opposite side where its twin sits completely unharmed. Or maybe that larger patch. Somehow the thought of that sets off an itch inside the root of every single one of his teeth.  
  
No, no, no. Succumbing to primal urges is _not_ the Solo way.  
  
He opts for bland chatter instead as he sets up their dinner. Mounting and suffocating her wouldn’t go over well, he thinks. “What’s your opinion on oat milk?”  
  
 _That was nonchalant right?  
  
_ **_Smooth, real smooth.  
  
_ ** She pretends to consider while he pulls a trolley and starts depositing the styrofoam containers onto it. One big one, two medium ones, a plethora of tiny ones for dipping sauces and two sets of paper wrapped bamboo chopsticks.   
  
“Thick, creamy,” she hums while he pulls up a tray and brackets it directly over her lap.  
  
Ben can’t help the snort of a laugh that escapes him, “you moonlight as a nut milk connoisseur?”  
  
“I might,” she bites with a cocked brow, crossing her arms over her chest, “anyway, it’s got a nice sweetness to it. Velvety texture. Great for coffee. Haven’t had it in a while, though.”  
  
“How come?” He places the largest styrofoam container on the tray alongside a small one he’s uncapped to reveal an aromatic peanut dipping sauce. He flips the lid open to reveal 4 perfectly tucked cold rolls. Pink shrimp glistening beneath the opaque rice paper, tucked against vermicelli, cilantro and veggies. He can see her eyes light up with delight and that somehow makes his chest begin to rumble.  
  
So, naturally, he coughs to cover it up.  
  
“Haven’t seen it on grocery store shelves. Only place I usually get it is Costco and I haven’t had a chance to go lately. Case you haven’t noticed my life’s been a never-ending string of hospital visits,” she mutters, grabbing half roll the minute his fingers release the container and dipping it into the sauce, “you having some too or is this all for me?”  
  
She proceeds to maul the half roll and … yep, semi-chub.  
  
He doesn’t know what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s the way her cheeks bulge out. Maybe it’s the way she stuffs the width of the roll into her mouth with gusto rather than nibble at the corners like most women he’s had the displeasure of feeding. Like she can’t be bothered with etiquette, much like himself, when eating (his mother _still_ wonders how he manages to eat a slice of pizza in 3 bites). Maybe it’s the little bit of peanut sauce that’s smeared in the corner of her mouth he wants to lick off...  
  
“Yeah,” he practically wheezes, eyes trained on the way she continues stuffing the roll into her mouth. Why is this so unbearably arousing?  
  
 **_Providing for mate is satisfying.  
  
_ ** _Listen, I’d appreciate if you shut up for just a minute. I’m working on…  
  
_ **_I can help get mate?  
  
_ ** _No, I’ve got this.  
  
_ When the hell did they start agreeing? Him and this obnoxiously insistent voice?  
  
Her hand pats the side of her bed. “You gonna sit and join me? Or are you going to watch me eat?”  
  
Ben hadn’t considered what the seating arrangement would be. He’d been plenty happy to just procure the food. Fuck he’d eat standing. And yet there she is offering he sit across from her like it’s a…  
  
 _Don’t say it. It’s not a date.  
  
_ Radio silence from the voice. Huh.  
  
He nods curtly, plopping himself down by her knee. He’s still half standing because hospital beds are barely made for _one_ person, let alone two. But this is good. This is fine. He’s stand/lean/sitting next to her where he can feel the heat of her body. There’s a tray between them with food on it. Just shy of a table cloth and cutlery this could be...  
  
 _It’s not a date.  
  
_ **_Right.  
  
_ ** He proceeds to pick up a half roll while she works on her second half. Nibbles on his plain half while she smothers hers in dipping sauce. It’s not that he wouldn’t mind some sauce, it’s just that she seems to enjoy it so he’d prefer saving it all for her. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.  
  
Sitting and eating in silence, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of _her_ , he wonders again how it’s possible for a scene so wholly unnatural to feel so … domestic. They’re in a hospital for fuck’s sake. She’s just come out of surgery. She’s wearing a paperthin gown and is hooked up to at least 2 machines. Is currently sick with some form of infectious disease he’s never come across in literature and yet … it feels like something he could do every night. Would _like_ to do every night.  
  
Minus the hospital of course. Maybe on her couch snuggled under that soft wolf blanket. He could make them both a nice Hendricks gimlet, put on the fireplace channel…  
  
“What’s in there?” Her eyes glance at the other containers on the trolley as she stuffs the last of her cold roll (after double dipping) into her mouth.  
  
He pushes the last half of his cold roll towards her-  
  
 **_Good, feed mate. You’re getting the hang of this.  
  
_ ** -like an offering. “You’ll have to wait and see,” he grins like a plotting cartoon character, teeth and all.  
  
And don’t her eyes drop to his mouth just then. Making him swallow self consciously and close his mouth to cover his crooked teeth. She mumbles something to the effect of _fucking dimples_ while averting her eyes and grabbing the last bit of cold roll.  
  
The scent in the room seems to bloom. It becomes stronger. Richer and as a side effect he finds it affecting him in that zinging way. The one that makes an electric shock sizzle up his spinal column and … yep, he’s rock hard. He needs to deflect STAT.  
  
“Tell me about Kanan,” Ben asks, clearing the now empty container and exchanging it for the two medium sized ones. The aroma of seasoned pork filling the space between them while he busies himself with prepping the chopsticks.  
  
If he takes longer than usual to clean hers, swiping them vigorously to ensure there isn’t a single splinter, it’s because he doesn’t want to add any more ailments to the laundry list in her chart. That’s all.  
  
“He’s a wolf,” she quips around a mouthful of cold roll.  
  
“No, really?” He faux-gasps handing her the perfectly smooth chopsticks, “I thought he was a giraffe.”  
  
They smile at each other like a lovestruck pair of fools. She with the tail end of a cold roll bulging her cheeks and gripping the chopstick like a toddler holding a spoon and he … well he’s pretty sure there might be a cartoon hammer smashing heart eyes out of his head.  
  
“He’s an unknown species,” she starts again, watching wide eyed as he pulls the lids off their entrees, “my money’s on direwolf but everyone at the sanctuary thinks he’s just an evolved gray wolf. He’s got significantly bigger teeth, is bigger in general which supports my theory, though.”  
  
She grabs a container out of his hand greedily and hovers her nose over the top, “fuuuuuuck I haven’t smelled anything this good since you walked i…,” she coughs, sputters, “since Anchorage. I meant Anchorage.”  
  
Does his chest puff out and that rumbling vibration grow louder? You bet! A satisfied smirk settling on his face because he’s pretty sure what he’s experiencing right now is pride. She _likes_ him _._ And that’s a _spectacular_ realization.  
  
She pokes his bicep with her chopstick, “don’t let it get to your head Solo. Now eat.”  
  
With the smug grin still plastered on his face, he grabs his own container and pulls off the lid but doesn’t let his eyes wander from her. Continues to eye her victoriously, watching an adorable hint of pink warm her pretty freckled cheeks. Watching the shy glances she throws while refusing to meet his eye.  
  
“Are you going to keep staring at me with that uppity grin? Because I promise it won’t end well for you. I’m a menace with chopsticks,” she chides around a mouthful of pork and vermicelli. One container of sauce suspiciously empty.   
  
“Alright, sweetheart,” he dips a piece of pork in sauce expertly, “back to Kanan.” He snaps the morsel out of his chopsticks and begins pulling the noodles around in his bowl. “I don’t want details _about_ him. I’ve already got those. Tell me about him and Hera.”  
  
He doesn’t miss the blush spread further at the endearment, nor does he let the slip tumble him into a spiral of self-doubt. If it was anyone else, he would be catastrophizing. Imagining all kinds of scenarios on how he’ll get rejected and what level of sarcasm he’d need to employ to save face.   
  
But she _likes_ him. That much he’s certain of, now he just needs to play his cards right...  
  
 **_Bite.  
  
_ ** _Fuck off.  
  
_ The change in topic seems to do her good. “Well,” she starts around a mouthful of veggies, “they’re mated.”  
  
“I know tha-”  
  
Her index finger comes up to halt him. “Thing is, wolves mate alpha to alpha. Hera’s an omega. That’s … practically unheard of. See, omega wolves are typically the scapegoats. The court jester, if you will. If the pack is big enough - and in Kanan’s case it is - there’ll be one male and one female omega. The male omega will be dominated by the other males while the female omega is dominated by the other females. It’s completely necessary to the hierarchy of the pack and ensures health. But omegas don’t mate or breed. Their role is to get picked on and be the lowest notch on the totem, which in turn balances the pack’s hierarchy. Kanan has effectively broken the wheel by mating an omega.”  
  
“So he’s the Daenerys we never got,” Ben offers thoughtfully. A sly grin still lingering because he’s still unable to shake the pride radiating off him at the revelation that _she likes him.  
  
_ She chortles softly, “except he didn’t burn down King’s Landing.”  
  
A chanced glance up and she presses her lips together into a tight line. Chopsticks snapping angrily in front of his face, “oy, I told you to wipe that smug grin off your face.”  
  
“Sorry,” he chuckles, focusing back on his meal (the grin remains, he really can’t help it), “so then what can you tell me about this new Alpha & Omega coupling dynamic?”  
  
She stops. Completely. Vermicelli hanging out of her mouth and eyes squinting with ire.  
  
 **_What did you do?  
  
_ ** _I don’t … I don’t fucking know. I just asked a question!  
  
_ **_Mate is angry.  
  
_ ** She swallows and puts her container down. Which, in retrospect should have been the very first sign to wipe the stupid grin off his face.  
  
He does no such thing.  
  
“That’s some very specific phrasing there, Solo,” her arms cross over her chest.  
  
“What?”  
  
 _Oh shit.  
  
_ “How do you know about that?”  
  
 **_Be honest.  
  
_ ** _I’m not going to divulge that I broke into her house.  
  
_ “I called your boss. Ezra. He told me you were doing research,” he lies about as smoothly as one can when they’re caught red handed.  
  
“Ooooh no you don’t,” she pokes his bicep again with the chopstick, except this time it’s not light and playful. This time it bites into the muscle like it’s trying to pierce. He flexes against the intrusion.   
  
“I’m working on that on my own time. No one at the sanctuary knows about it. I’m going to ask you one more time, and this time you’re going to be honest or you’ll face the wrath of Darth Chopstickus. How do you know about that?”  
  
“That’s a dad joke, sweetheart.”  
  
“Don’t deflect,” another hard jab with her cutlery-turned-weapon, “and don’t think you can sweet talk your way out of it either.”  
  
Is it possible to be terrified, intrigued, utterly turned on and smitten at the exact same time? No? Ben is…  
  
“I…” he swallows, grin easing into a worried smirk.  
  
“Uh…” he _may_ sheepishly rub the back of his neck.  
  
 _Oh fuck it. Rip the bandaid off.  
  
_ “Right, well, fuck _fine!_ I ... went to Anchorage. And I _may_ have taken your keys out of your purse. To check your house for allergens, questionable foods, or other potential causes for your … condition. Purely professional, I assure you.”  
  
 _There. That wasn’t so bad.  
  
_ But her face, _oh_ her face. He can’t even figure out what exactly is going on with it. She looks about ready to tear his head off and yet, there’s a slight tilt to her brows and a softness in her mouth that _might_ indicate she’s … impressed?  
  
Except she doesn’t say anything. Continues eating (ravaging) with that hellish look on her face. Like chewing gives her thoughts rhythm. Like each grind of her jaw is how she imagines pulverising his bones because he’d effectively performed a B&E on _her_ property. Shovelling inelegant pinches full of food into her mouth indifferent to whether they make it all the way in or not. A ravenous consumption that’s equivalent to her state.  
  
Ben sighs. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how annoyed are you with me right now?”  
  
“You,” she snaps her chopsticks in front of his nose. Close enough to make him wince and regret a _lot_ of the life decisions he’s made in the last 24 hours. “ _You_ … it depends on what you brought for dessert.”  
  
 _Well, shit.  
  
_ **_Mate is dreamy.  
  
_ ** _She’s going to kill us.  
  
_ “I…”  
  
“Didn’t think of dessert, huh?”  
  
“No,” he relents.  
  
They fall into an uncomfortable silence. She continues to shovel food in her mouth while Ben finds his appetite has utterly left him. A tragedy, really, because he doesn’t have bún chà nearly as often as he should.   
  
Also, when the fuck did a patient manage to crawl under his skin like this? He certainly _never_ feels bad for crossing lines in the name of medicine. And in comparison to some of his other escapades, this is downright benign.  
  
So why does he feel like a scolded puppy?  
  
And why can’t he shake the feeling?  
  
“It’s fine. What’s done is done,” she waves her hand after what feels like too long, “but I don’t want to hear a _peep_ about how shitty you think my house is.”  
  
His eyes (which had been glued to his lap like a guilty child) dart up to meet hers. The anger morphed into what he can only guess is playfulness. A mischievous glint that brings out the warm green in her eyes.  
  
 _I can work with that.  
  
_ **_Good. Fix with mate.  
  
_ ** He gasps, “m‘lady, you wound me,” he presses his hand to his chest, “I was going to say it’s quaint.”  
  
She fixes him with a fiery glare, “see, that’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about. That … sarcasm.”  
  
Ben raises his hands in mock defeat, “I was being serious. It was really cozy.”  
  
“Well,” she eyes him suspiciously, searching for an ounce of insincerity (which she won’t find), “did you at least clean out my fridge? It must stink to high heaven by now.”  
  
A chuckle escapes him, hand reaching down to massage her nearest calf.  
  
How does this feel so right? He _never_ touches patients outside of what’s strictly necessary. With her? He’s broken every single rule he’s ever set for himself in 2 days. _Continues_ to break rules he hadn’t even written but must surely be embedded in the fine print.  
  
And she’s not even _stopping_ him.   
  
“I did you one better,” he purrs, “I went to _Costco_ for you.”  
  
“Ohhhh,” she shivers, whether it’s fake or not he can’t tell, “careful with the dirty talk, Solo. You might unintentionally drop panties.”  
  
 **_Fuck her. Fuck her now!  
  
_ ** _I’m doing just fine without your suggestions.  
  
_ **_You need to bite mate. We’re keeping her.  
  
_ ** Ben mentally rolls his eyes. Maybe even blows a raspberry at that obnoxious voice.  
  
“That’s impossible, sweetheart.”  
  
There’s that endearment again. It’s the third time he’s dropped it. It’s the third time he sees the corners of her mouth quirk in response as though she likes it. It’s the first time he’s ever used it in his life on another human. It’s also the one word his father calls his mother religiously - the gold standard for your ma-  
  
 _Ohh no you don’t. Nice try though.  
  
_ **_Stop being stubborn and bite her already.  
  
_ ** “I beg to differ,” she puts her empty container down on the tray, “you said _Costco_. You’re like … one 6 pack of Kirkland brand oat milk away from being proposed to.”  
  
The inner voice is suspiciously quiet, but he can almost hear the fanfare going off in his head. Party poppers and rattlers and vuvuzelas and all. Is there … confetti?  
  
“You just came out of surgery,” he leans in, closing the distance to that delectable scent that’s growing stronger, thicker. “I know _all_ you’re wearing is that shitty gown.”  
  
There’s warmth between them. It’s not the latent heat of their now empty meal containers, nor the temperature of the air in the hospital. It radiates like their bodies are competing furnaces, each trying to consume the other with its heat. And it smells like … well Solo, what _does_ it smell like? The closest description he has is dessert and home and he’s pretty sure he’s reached max quota on using _that_ analogy.  
  
He _could_ close the gap. Reach his hand across the short space between them and stroke her cheek. Maybe even curl his fingers around the nape of her neck to angle her just right. He _could._ And he’s positive she’d let him. Nay, _welcome_ him.  
  
But he wants to push the connection. Test its boundaries and test _her._ For his own perverted reasons.  
  
What he’d like is a grand flashing sign. A marquee lit up in neon lights that proclaims her attraction to him. Something that leaves no room for doubt.  
  
He reaches between them instead, taking note of how her pupils have dilated a smidge. How her mouth has parted and her eyes are glued to … well, not his eyes. Either his nose or his mouth. He could. He _definitely_ could kiss her right now.  
  
“I’ll have you know,” he murmurs, transfixed by how her eyes seem to widen when he speaks, “that I _did,_ in fact, pick up a 6 pack of oat milk.”  
  
He pulls away enough to grin proudly at her devolved state. To pile the containers and deposit them into the bag, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders with self-satisfaction.  
  
“W-where the _fuck_ did you come from?!” she whines indignantly.  
  
“Been right here, sweetheart.”   
  
His pretty patient seems to regain her composure, because that soft smile is back. She’s pushing his shoulder playfully, shaking her head in disbelief. This time he doesn’t miss her small fingers giving a testing squeeze. One he might be flexing against because … well that’s why he goes to the gym, doesn’t he?  
  
“I wasn’t referring to _my_ panties you perv.”  
  
“Sure you weren’t,” he chuckles.  
  
She clears her throat softly. “Well ... now you _definitely_ owe me dessert.”   
  
Oh, how sweet she looks deflecting.  
  
“Your choices are as follows,” he moves the tray off her lap and leans it against the bed frame, scooting himself into the now vacant space, “goopy stevia sweetened rice pudding. It’s my hippocratic duty to let you know it’s lactose based … and that the rice is _severely_ overcooked. It’s … well it’s goo. Milky goo that not even a healthy dose of cinnamon can resuscitate.”  
  
He reaches a hand to brush her hair away from the bandage and _maybe_ to feel the heat radiating off her body. Let it seep into the tips of his fingers.  
  
“Or chocolate cake. But beware, it’s a sugarless brick. It’s dry and I’m pretty sure it’s the same batch they’ve been offering up for at least two weeks.”  
  
Her hands twitch at her sides, like they’re debating between rising up to touch him or staying put. God how he wants her to reach out and make contact. To return the affection so he can _know_ for certain.  
  
“Your sales pitch is excellent,” she laughs lightly. Eyes closing and head tilting to open the slope of her neck to him, “I’ll have both.”   
  
He wants to kiss her. He _should_ kiss her. No … he’s _going_ to kiss her.  
  
“So,” she murmurs breathily, “you’ve been to my house. What did you find?”  
  
… or they could just talk about her diagnosis.  
  
“Nothing of concern,” he straightens out again, the charged moment having dissipated. Evaporated into the too warm air that smells _too_ sweet. He should feel disappointed. Having been so close and accomplishing nothing. And yet, he can’t help but feel this isn’t the end. Only an interlude.   
  
Maybe it’s for the best. If he can work _with_ her to formulate the diagnosis, he can get her out of here and on a real date faster. That’s inevitable now.  
  
“Don’t lie,” her hand reaches for him, lays gently on his forearm. Wordlessly asking to keep the close proximity even if the moment’s fizzled, “you went to spy on me, didn’t you?”  
  
He can’t stop the lopsided grin from blooming on his face. Nor the way his body naturally turns back toward hers in response to her silent request.  
  
“Busted,” he concedes, hand dropping behind him to resume massaging her calf.  
  
“Sneaky hobbitses.”  
  
“Don’t worry. I didn’t touch any of your preciouses.”  
  
Her head drops back against the pillow. Enjoying the satisfaction of a good meal, a full stomach and _maybe_ the feel of his touch.   
  
“Tell me more about Kanan and Hera,” he prompts, hand snaking under the blanket to make direct contact with her skin. She feels hot. Unnaturally hot. Then again, he probably is too. It’s been a while since he’d taken an Advil.  
  
“Where were we?” it comes out a little like a moan and he admonishes his male anatomy for responding so quickly. Now is _not_ the time. But there _will_ be a time. Of that he’s certain.  
  
“Alpha and omega. Coupling dynamics,” he reminds her, digging his thumb into the underside of her muscle and running it along its edge, “you were going to give me a distilled version of your research paper.”  
  
“Right,” her head turns to meet his eyes, “here’s what I’ve discovered thus far. They’re definitely pair-bonded. And even though she’s _technically_ an Omega by status, he treats her like an alpha. If other females try to nip at her like they would have _before_ , he snaps at them.”  
  
“He’s protecting his mate,” Ben shrugs, shifting his hand to dote equal attention on the other calf, “tell me more.”  
  
“They’re typically monogamous if they’re bonded, which those two are. But I’ve noticed two things that are abnormal. One, he shirked alpha responsibilities earlier this spring when she was in heat. I literally couldn’t find them, then a week later they just sauntered back to the pack and it was business as usual. Two, he bites her in the same place repeatedly.  
  
“Not that that’s uncommon … wow you _really_ have magic hands … the vet and I brought her in to check her out after her heat. Found she’s got this bite mark between her shoulder and neck. It’s not uncommon, per se, it’s just that it’s the _only_ mating mark. Usually there are many. This is the _only_ spot he marks on her.”  
  
Ben nods, eyes looking out the window deep in thought, “like a gland.”  
  
“You nerd,” she swats his chest, “did you actually _read_ my paper?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You read it, didn’t you?”  
  
“No I just … saw it laying there but I didn’t touch it. I swear. Why?”  
  
“Because,” she sighs, “that’s what I’m proposing. That he’s actually biting a gland. We won’t know for certain what it is until she passes away and we perform an autopsy though.”  
  
Puzzle pieces begin floating in his head. Knobs and sockets testing fit, testing viability and for once … there’s congruence.  
  
A gland between the shoulder and neck. Alpha. A bite…  
  
“Rey?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Tell me about Hera’s heat.”   
  
Why is he blushing? Why is _she_ blushing?  
  
“Oh,” she chokes, “I … uh, I mentioned I didn’t see them for the entire time, right?”  
  
“You did but ... tell me about wolf heats in general.”  
  
It seems like the right path of questioning.   
  
**_You’re finally getting it.  
  
_ ** Alright, it _is_ the right path of questioning.  
  
“Well, they last about a week on average. Twice a year but they can be triggered from what I’ve observed. At least that was the case with Hera. She wasn’t scheduled for one but bonding with Kanan seemed to have triggered her.”  
  
She stops, seeming to consider her words. The sweetness in the air seems to have upped a notch.  
  
“Go on,” he prods, working his way down to her foot.  
  
“Oooh fuck,” she groans, “I can’t think with you doing _that!”  
  
_ “Wolf heat, sweetheart,” he chuckles, chest puffing out proudly at eliciting _that_ reaction from her. Maybe his chest is rumbling again. Who knows. _Who cares.  
  
_ “Right … increased body temperature, uh, presents to her chosen mate. Flirts a lot until she chooses a mate if she hasn’t bonded. _Jesus_ Ben, right there. Press right there into the arch … uh, frequent mating once she finds one … if- if you catch my drift. Not that wolves don’t get freaky normally, it’s just more … umm … dire? Yeah, let’s go with that. It’s more dire when they’re in heat.”  
  
Increased body temperature. Flirting until she chooses a mate…  
  
“Tell me about how the males deal with it,” he swallows around the dryness that’s manifesting in his throat. Because more and more of those floating puzzle pieces are beginning to fit and the most unlikely of scenarios suddenly becomes the most probable.  
  
“A _lot_ of aggression. That’s why we closely monitor the females. If it gets out of hand we could end up with dead wolves. We’ve had a few incidents when we introduced new females to packs and … it was a _lot_ to deal with. Protective, _very_ territorial. Imagine a stray dog who’s found a nice big bone. Now imagine any other dog trying to get near that bone. Like that.”  
  
 _No fucking way.  
  
_ “Hey,” she smiles sheepishly, biting her lip as he begins working the other foot, “want to know a fun fact about wolves?”  
  
“Sure,” he answers hoarsely.  
  
“Their dicks have this funky little feature … when they mate they have this little thing called a _bulbus glandis_. Some people at the sanctuary call it a bulb, others a knot. Basically it’s erectile tissue at the base that swells to lock the male inside the female. It’s fucking hilarious. They’re literally stuck together. Lasts like half an hour.”  
  
 _‘Don’t worry about the knot. It’ll come naturally and she’ll like it.’  
  
_ Erectile tissue. Swells. At the base…  
  
More knobs fit into their sockets.   
  
Jesus fucking Christ this is _not_ happening. Are they … did wolf DNA manage to…  
  
“Hey,” she pushes his chest, “you alright? I thought that was pretty funny. I mean can you imagine what that’d look like on humans? Like a lumpy bag of potatoes … nuts, knot and all. Just a bulbous mess of skin.”  
  
She’s laughing, shoulders heaving. He’s definitely not laughing though.  
  
“H-hey, Rey?”  
  
“Okay, you’ve _got_ to stop this worried brooding thing you’ve got going on. It’s creeping me out a bit if I’m being honest.”  
  
“You … uh,” how does he say this? How does he tell her she has _glands_ in the exact place her omega subject probably does? How does he broach the subject that _perhaps_ the wolf DNA has … infected her. And him. And his staff. And … oh God.  
  
“Ben?”  
  
His palms find their way onto his face. Press into his eye sockets until he sees swirling shapes. A loud groan reverberates in the air.  
  
“Rey, you,” he swallows the lump in his throat, “you … those things on your neck? Those are glands.”  
  
She’s staring at him dumbly. Disbelieving. He doesn’t blame her. Not really.  
  
Her hand reaches up to touch the bandage. Drifts across her throat to touch the other then down to the larger patch.  
  
“We didn’t touch that one in surgery,” that seems like important information to share, “in fact, we didn’t do anything, really.”  
  
He’s met with wide, pleading eyes.  
  
“All we did was make an incision along the border of your left one to see what was below the surface. It’s … for all intents and purposes it’s an enlarged … or uh, mutated, sweat gland. We swabbed it and then sewed you back up. Nothing was damaged. Nothing removed. Nothing biopsied. I made sure of that.”  
  
She continues to stroke the large patch almost lovingly. Like she’s become attached to it.  
  
 **_Bite.  
  
_ ** _Seriously? Now is not the time.  
  
_ **_That’s where you bite._ **   
  
“Look,” he gestures, sweeping his own hair off his neck to expose own, “it’s … they’re glands and … they’re infectious.”  
  
Her fingers continue to stroke the large patch on her trapezius. For some fucking reason that makes him horny as all hell. He can feel his blood rushing south. Can feel the tightness in his pants and his heart rate quicken. Somehow, those slender little fingers stroking against the most _random_ patch of human skin is the most erotic thing he’s seen in … fuck, ever?  
  
“Can… may I … touch yours?”  
  
Now, normally he’d say something along the lines of ‘fuck off’. Ben is not the type to let anyone touch him. He’s even slapped the tailor’s hand when he was getting fitted for his parent’s vow renewal ceremony tux.   
  
Except they’ve crossed multiple thresholds. So many, in fact, that he can’t even see the starting point anymore. So considering they’re both the same level of infected … what harm can it possibly do?  
  
He’s already bastardized her body. Tested his theories on her welts … no, _glands …_ multiple times. He’s hugged her. He’s flirted with her. He’s massaged her feet. Why the hell not?  
  
He nods. Scoots closer so his hip sits next to hers. Leans in to give her access. There’s something about this moment that transcends the act. Like he’s not just letting her look at these … glands. Like he’s flaying his very soul to her. It feels submissive and powerful in equal parts.  
  
Her hand comes up to curl around his neck, like she’s not trying to analyze the growths but comfort him instead. It’s soft and warm, barely a whisper of a touch. Yet when she swipes her thumb over her chosen gland he can’t help letting his eyes flutter closed. That rumble in his chest starting with renewed vigour.  
  
She continues stroking. Gentle caresses that elicit waves of arousal within him. He’s fighting, _fighting_ to keep a groan from escaping his throat.   
  
Is this how she felt when he touched hers? Because this is pure bliss. It’s the type of ecstasy that can only be surpassed by sex. Or a q-tip.   
  
Her fingers slide down his neck, away from the gland she’d been stroking. Down over his throat and further to work the top button of his shirt. To pry it open and slide under the fabric. To expose his trapezius.  
  
What happens next is something Ben can’t explain medically or logically. It defies everything he knows about biology or human function.  
  
He feels the warmth of her hand approach a spot within himself that feels like the terminal point for every nerve ending in his body. It’s a powerful, magnetic sort of feeling. Teetering him on the brink of fear (because he’s never felt any emotion _this_ strongly) and euphoria (because he’s never felt so good in his whole life). The approaching warmth of her hand has his body simmering with anticipation, on the brink of boiling over with just the slightest ghost of a touch. His skin breaks out in goosebumps, a shiver from just _expecting_ contact.  
  
Then it’s there. The warmth. The completeness of the touch. Like the positive and negative ends of a battery making contact to complete an electrical loop. Like two magnets sealing together.  
  
If the scent could become a feeling, if he’d smelled _home_ in the room before … now he’s feeling it.  
  
It’s consuming. Like letting a tidal wave crash directly over you. Helpless against the onslaught. The only option is complete surrender and trusting yourself into the ocean’s hands.  
  
He remembers the rumble in his chest.   
  
He remembers letting out something akin to a moan.  
  
He blacks out.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


**_That’s it, you’re finally getting the hang of it *purr*  
  
_ ** **_Wow you_ ** **do** **_listen. Good for you Ben. Our mate tastes so good, doesn’t she? If you suck on the gland just … y-yeeeeah that’s it. That’s good. Delicious.  
  
_ ** **_Omigod yesss. NNnngh.  
  
_ ** **_Scrape your teeth there … just like that.  
  
_ ** **_Holy shit.  
  
_ ** **_Mate mate mate.  
  
_ ** **_Wait, what are you doing? Get away from that. That is_ ** **NOT** **_what I meant.  
  
_ ** **_Not yet, Ben. Stop it! Stay away from the mating gland.  
  
_ ** **_No. Ben wait!  
  
_ ** **_Oh holy fucking shit that tastes amazing *shudder*  
  
_ ** **_Do — nngh — not bite — Stop it!  
  
_ ** **_For the love of God stop it. Do not clamp down, I repeat do_ ** **not** **_clamp down.  
  
_ ** **_*softly* if you just suck on that a little … OoOOoh God yess...  
  
_ ** **_No teeth dammit. Jesus now I understand why you pinch your nose so much. You’re stubborn as a mule!  
  
_ ** **_*growl*  
  
_ ** **_What did I do to deserve being stuck with this guy? Is there an Alpha God? If there is, please grant me the strength to stave off the rut this buffoon is sure to trigger.  
  
_ ** **_Think about trees, think about nature, think about food, think about puppies…  
  
_ ** **_Fuck, shit! No puppies. Do_ ** **NOT** **_think about pups.  
  
_ ** **_*dips into Ben’s memories*  
  
_ ** **_*comes out gasping*_ **

**_The things I do for us!  
  
_ ** **_Okay, think about Ma, think about Hux’s pasty ass and Tico getting it on … oh I’ve got the perfect one to cool you down — think about Holdo.  
  
_ ** **_Why the bloody hell isn’t this working?  
  
_ ** **_God fucking dammit Ben! If we’re going to coexist you need to start listening.  
  
_ ** **_Stop nipping that! Is there a spray bottle I can use on this donkey?  
  
_ ** **_Just … get off our mate Ben. Humping is not going to end well for us. You don’t want to knot her yet.  
  
_ ** **_Will you get the fuck off her already? You’re going to *swats at nothing angrily* trigger a rut and fasttrack her heat. Must get her somewhere safe first.  
  
_ ** **_*sigh*  
  
_ ** **_I hope you find the cure and kill me, honestly. I don’t know how I’m going to manage living with you.  
  
_ ** **_Okay that’s enough. You’ve had enough now. Yes she’s delicious, yes I’d love nothing more than to latch on and drink in her scent together, preferably while knotted and we’ve claimed her … but one of us needs to be an adult here.  
  
_ ** **_You can hate me for it tomorrow but I’m taking over.  
  
_ ** **_*sighs from the depths of Alpha soul and draws every ounce of strength*  
  
_ ** **_Why must I be the voice of reason? I just want our perfect mate..._ **

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🤔 _Someone_ is gonna wake up v confused...
> 
> My head canon (I have a lot of them) for these two is that Rey holds her chopsticks low, brings her bowl right to her face and shovels food directly into her mouth. Ben, on the other hand is the prissy type who holds his chopsticks near the ends and brings morsels to his mouth majestically like the rich brat he is. Also … he finds her shovelling irresistible (shocker).
> 
> Send positive vibes. I'm writing the peak of Ch. 10 and I'm blocked AF right meow 😪
> 
> **Never heard of this stuff?**   
>  [Bún Chà](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bun_cha)   
>  [Plasticine (aka modelling clay)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plasticine)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A moment of charged silence passes. Holdo must be considering how to admonish him for the ‘tasteless rebuttal’, Ben is definitely thinking of which words to choose next in order to find the path of least resistance and the pharmacist? Well, she looks utterly perplexed by the way he’d just spoken to the Dean of Medicine._
> 
> _On a different note - that should have been a telling factor that he is indeed who he says he is. Nobody dares talk to Holdo the way he does. Because nobody’s got the balls to._
> 
> _“Alright,” Holdos voice sighs on the phone, “that’s definitely Dr. Solo. Kalonia, help him out with whatever he needs.”_
> 
> _Ben grins like a demented cat and the pharmacist’s eyes peel wide._
> 
> _That’s right, lady. You’re face to face with a legend._
> 
> _**And you think I’m the problem? You had a complex long before I arrived.** _
> 
> _“His methods are unorthodox but they work,” Holdo continues unfazed, “send me a copy of the prescription once you fill it, please.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here … have 8,000+ words of medically twisted explanations, realizations, and the setup for the final chapter. And of course, more Alpha because I 💖 him. 
> 
> This is the second time I’m bending medicine to fit the plot, so don’t take anything below as scientific fact. Fair warning.

His alarm is blaring from far away. Like it’s in the next room.   
  
Why, oh _why_ did he choose the fucking _duck_ as his alarm? It’s worse than a jackhammer going off next to his temple, or someone mowing the lawn at 6 fucking AM on a Sunday.   
  
Then again, that _is_ the point of an alarm, isn’t it? To annoy you enough you’re stirred to motion. To get you out of bed so you can get your day started. Still … he should change it. Nobody should start their day enraged by the sounds of quacking. He’s pretty sure he’ll never look at foie gras the same because of his alarm now.  
  
Morning sun permeates through his closed lids. He releases an irritated groan, throaty and gruff, flinging his forearm over his eyes to blot out the brightness.  
  
He’s hot, uncomfortably so. His skin feels too tight, like his viscea are so swollen they threaten to tear his epidermis. A membrane filled to the brim, stretched unnaturally thin. Any more intake and he’d burst.  
  
Like that time he had to go buy new shirts because his efforts in the gym _finally_ paid off. He’d finally done the bicep curl to rule them all, cracking the stitching on his under armour shirt and setting off a wave of ‘I’m big’ smug satisfaction.   
  
He preens at the memory, a self-satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his lips. She’d liked that, didn’t she? He remembers her touching his arm. Her small, warm fingers probing the sturdy muscle he’s been meticulously exercising.  
  
 _Rey..._   
  
Ben shifts his arm and cracks his eyes open to his bedroom ceiling. Blinds streak against the golden glow of early morning sunlight. His fan is on and whipping at the highest available speed.   
  
Rolling his head to the side he finds his blankets are on the floor. As are his clothes. In fact, he’s completely naked on his bed, sprawled like a starfish. Each limb reaching for its matching bedpost in an attempt to mimic being strung up on a torture rack.  
  
His chest feels like it’s covered in glue. Skin tighter there than the rest of his body.   
  
When he chances a bleary eyed look down, he notices a thick milky crust. _Shit._ His chest is covered in his dried spend. A _lot_ of it.   
  
_What the fuck happened?  
  
_ ** _You’re an idiot.  
  
_** He grunts in frustration. Because he would remember releasing a load _that_ big. Or multiples from the looks of it.   
  
**_Too far gone. You wouldn’t listen.  
  
_** Ben takes a moment to breathe. To get his bearings and check in with his body. To ignore the ramblings of his mental passenger.   
  
His body temperature feels like a close approximation to an inferno. He feels disgusting and probably needs to take a shower ASAP. His dick feels sore...  
  
Wait. No, scratch that. The _base_ of his dick feels sore.  
  
 ** _Again, because you didn’t listen.  
  
_** Sitting up groggily he looks down to analyze the offending body part to find it abnormally red. Slightly swollen. The skin rougher. It feels ... raw.  
  
A long, drawn out _fuuuuck_ escapes his lips. Only for him to realize his mouth is absolutely parched.  
  
So he smacks his lips together, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get his salivary glands going and attempts swallowing. There’s a distinct taste on his tongue, lingering.  
  
One that reminds him of a certain perfume. A vanilla and jasmine concoction he can’t seem to get out of his head.  
  
It tastes like … home.  
  
“What the fuck happened?” Ben wonders out loud. Surprising himself with just how hoarse he sounds. Like he’s spent the evening screaming at a nightclub.   
  
His memory feels fuzzy. Like he’d gotten too drunk. Glimpses of some _very_ erotic mewls, or warm skin and a soft body. Of wandering lips and murmured endearments. Of an apology, an IV switch being flipped. Of wobbling down halls and darkened streets. Of tearing his pants off and...  
  
 ** _You wouldn’t listen.  
  
_** _So? Like you do.  
  
_ ** _I had to get you out before you triggered a rut. Last night was a soft rut.  
  
_** “What the fuck is that?” The question is asked out loud to his chest where he’s taken to scraping his fingernails against the crust. Chunks peeling off in thick milky flakes.  
  
 ** _*sigh* … still so much to learn.  
  
_** ** _Now get up. We need to get cleaned up and back to our mate._**

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


“What do you mean ‘you need me down there’?” he mocks irritatedly, “can’t you just email me the results? Or bring them up? I’m a busy man and I thought I told you to deliver them personally!”  
  
The stuttering voice of the lab technician prattles on and on about the geneticist wanting to review the results in person. About how they need to be explained in order to not be misconstrued … like Ben doesn’t know how to read a fucking lab report.  
  
“So send _him_ up!” he bellows  
  
“I’m afraid that’s not possible Dr. Solo,” the answer is curt, polite even. And yet there’s an undercurrent of fear in the technician’s voice. Rightfully so.  
  
“Because…” Ben drawls angrily.  
  
“Because, uh … Dr. Solo, the way the results came out is best if you see them on our screens. Th-that’s how the geneticist explained it.”  
  
Ben groans. Pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off the annoyance coursing through him. He knows what it is now. Aggression. Or at the very least knows the root of it but hasn’t quite figured out just _how_ to manage it.  
  
 _Don’t even fucking say it.  
  
_ **_Wasn’t gonna.  
  
_ ** “Fine. 5 minutes. You best not keep me waiting.”  
  
He doesn’t wait for the affirmative. No. Ben slams down the receiver and thuds out of his office with only a brief glance back at the _very_ empty scrum room.   
  
His team’s not here today.   
  
When he’d finally gotten out of bed this morning and grabbed his phone to stop the infernal quacking of his alarm (he _really_ should change that), he’d noticed a barrage of early morning messages from his team. More specifically Tico and Dameron.   
  
Of course, his neurologist remained aloof as can be. His text simply read ‘I’ve got a fever. Not coming in.’  
  
Tico, on the other hand, sent him a slew. A running tally of hers and Hux’s symptoms starting around midnight admonishing him for the way he’d broached the subject of their relationship.  
  
  
  
 **Tico:** _If you wanted to know about our relationship, why didn’t you talk to us together? Huh? Real mature, Solo.  
  
_ **Tico:** _If you so much as bat your lashes the wrong way at us, I’m telling Holdo about your midday naps in ICU. Don’t think I don’t know about those.  
  
_ **Tico:** _Morning. Don’t think we’re coming in today. We’re both running fevers. Did you know the glands make smells?  
  
_ **Tico:** _Armie’s produce a scent. It smells like lemon tarts. How the fuck does a body smell like lemon tarts? Did you smell me yesterday? I keep wracking my brain but I definitely couldn’t smell you.  
  
_ **Tico:** _Solo, call me when you get this? I’m not sure how to handle what’s going on. Armitage made a ball of blankets and pillows on my bed and is crying in the middle.  
  
_ **Tico:** _Solo! What the fuck is going on?! He’s complaining that something hurts and he’s oozing … you know what, you don’t need to know the details but Jesus FUCK call me!  
  
_ **Tico:** _Okay, I managed to calm him down but he’s burning up. Please call me?  
  
_ **Tico:** _This a purely medical observation. Intercourse appears to reduce the symptoms. For both of us.  
  
_ **Tico:** _I swear to God Ben if you respond with anything less than professionalism I’m quitting. Call me when you get this.  
  
_ **Tico:** _Please._

He’d texted her back and promised he’d call as soon as he got to the hospital.   
  
A promise he’s currently breaking. Because _instead_ of having an insightful conversation with his immunologist, he’s going to the lab.   
  
_God_ this better be worth it.  
  
He notices things on his way there. Two nurses cowering in the corner while a radiologist engages in a screaming match with an archive intern. A tech sucking on the neck of one of the caf employees who seems to be thoroughly enjoying the attention. A doctor he’s never seen before smashing his fists on a nurse’s station demanding access to a patient’s room.  
  
All acts of aggression he wouldn’t have thought twice about yesterday.  
  
Except today he’s more sensitive to them. A heightened awareness that comes with having the pieces of his puzzle slot into place. Benign behaviours and symptoms painting a clearer picture of what he’s dealing with and just how far it’s managed to spread.  
  
With every wave of hostility flowing through the corridors he feels his hackles rise. With every stray glance he catches sight of little red welts just above the collars of scrubs or shirts. They’re not on everyone. But they _are_ on those who are exhibiting symptomatic behaviours.  
  
They’re not overt acts. So far they’re relatively tame. If you didn’t know what to look for (meaning if you’re not Dr. Ben Solo looking for an infectious disease that causes glands to sprout) you’d think they’re just regular people having a bad day ... or catching up with a paramour.   
  
Then there’s the smells. None are nearly as affecting as the delectable vanilla and jasmine combo that’s seeped into his tongue and seared into his memory. But they’re there. A hint of sandalwood and cherry blossom here, bamboo and apple there … one even smelled like roasted chestnuts and firewood.   
  
Where yesterday these smells would have driven him nuts, he’s now wholly driven to return to one particular scent. The others becoming nothing but background noise in his quest for _the one._   
  
That’s what he’s come to accept, now. That smell of home, the smell of warmed vanilla, creamy and rich, and blossoming jasmine in the early evening … _that_ is the smell of _the one_.   
  
He’s not sure whether it’s him or that voice in his head that’s planted the seed. Only that he’s stopped fighting it. That it’s taken root and begun to sprout. That not a single cell in his body revolts against the idea so it can’t possibly be a bad thing.  
  
Ben could continue to wax poetic about the scent. About how right it feels and smells and how much he craves being near the epicentre of that effervescent diffusion. But right now he needs to get to the lab. Needs to review her results with those lazy fucks.   
  
He’s pretty sure lab techs are the medical equivalent of computer programmers. If you don’t walk into their world singing ‘Ave Maria’ and approach cautiously waving calming incense, they spook.  
  
He does, however, make a quick stop on the 4th floor, asking nurse Janice to turn off Rey’s lorazepam drip and guard the door with her life. He’d (fortunately) only gotten a single raised brow and an ‘of course Dr. Solo’. He also noticed (to his delight) that Janice’s neck was gland free.  
  
Before he hits the lab, he sends one quick text. Because he’s an asshole on most days, but today things feel like they’re coming to a head. There’s no room for sarcasm or snark. No space for double entendres and power dynamics.   
  
**Solo:** _Lab ran the tests and want to review in person. Will call you after if that’s ok.  
  
_ He doesn’t wait for Tico to reply. Simply pushes into the lab where he’s immediately greeted by the technician (fucking Matt) and an older gentleman with a stern face. The silver nameplate on his lab coat reads ‘Enric Pryde, Geneticist’.   
  
“Doctor Solo,” the geneticist greets, “glad you could make it. Please follow me.”  
  
Ben only nods and follows. Impressed that they’d stood at the ready upon arrival and that they’re not wasting time making small talk. These two should teach a course on hospital etiquette, he thinks fleetingly.  
  
He’s never been this deep inside the lab. Usually he dumps off whatever samples he’s bagged (when he doesn’t get his patsies to do it) into the inbound bin and is out doing more important things. Like getting coffee. Or taking a piss. Or pranking someone. Or avoiding Holdo. The list is endless … really.  
  
The stainless steel doors beyond the front counter open up to an enormous open concept laboratory. Stations separated by walking paths to different equipment, machines, and workspaces filled with beakers, vials, microscopes … you name it. Shit that handles fluids and tissue. Shit that breaks down molecular structure and analyzes its baser compounds. Shit that Ben couldn’t give a single fuck about because he’s a macro kinda guy.  
  
They walk through the corridors between machines and work stations. To the back where it’s a little quieter and there are a few offices. Well, not offices per se. They’re sealed work spaces where potentially infectious materials are analyzed. Hazard signs posted on almost every door.  
  
“Here we are,” the geneticist motions into a cubicle, “I’ve already pulled up the results on the screen there.”  
  
Ben leans against the wall and stares at the garbled words on the screen, stroking the stubble on his cheek as he takes in the closely squeezed lines of data.  
  
On one screen the geneticist pulled up the results of the wolf. On the other, the results of his patient. In a stroke of genius Pryde had combined her lab results (old and new in chronological order) to include non-genetics so Ben is able to view all the material at once.  
  
It makes Ben’s life easier, sure. He even appreciates the request to come down here now, based on the sheer volume. Only ... nothing really seems out of the ordinary on the screens.  
  
Well, not really.  
  
Her neurotransmitter count is a bit off. Both screens display an elevated level of dopamine but where the wolf’s serotonin numbers are balanced in equal parts, Rey’s serotonin is off the charts. Double her dopamine count according to the results. Unbalanced to a degree that could be indicative of psychosis.  
  
That certainly explains the cramping, anxiety and fever. And if he hadn’t talked to her, if they hadn’t interacted, if he was to only based his opinion on these results and her chart, he’d think there might _definitely_ be a psychotic element to it. That perhaps there’s a sliver of psychosis involved.  
  
Except he _hasn’t_ seen atypical behaviour from her. With the exception of her hallucinations of course. And now that he has first hand experience, he doesn’t think it’s psychosis so much as that _other voice_ making demands.  
  
Then again … that _is_ psychosis, isn’t it? Hearing voices?  
  
God he wishes he had Dameron to bounce this off of. This is completely up his alley. Ben should email him at least that portion of the results to get his ideas once he’s not indisposed.   
  
But … none of the data explains the glands or the fucking _knot_ he’d woken up with.  
  
That’s what that is, isn’t it? To her it had been a joke. A fun fact about wolves shared in good humour. And yet somehow that wolf DNA has managed to start mutating human bodies to the tune of reshaping the base of his dick. He should call Ezra.  
  
He should probably have a conversation with Holdo, too. This is an outbreak and it needs to be contained.  
  
Wait, he needs to call Tico first.  
  
No. Holdo. Definitely Holdo. It would be socially irresponsible for it to _not_ be his next conversation.  
  
“You see that there?” The geneticist’s bony finger taps on the patient’s results.   
  
“She’s showing high traces of the nucleobase Uracil,” he says calmly, “so does the wolf.”  
  
“Matt told you the sample was animal, huh?”  
  
“Dr. Solo, if I may be blunt,” the man straightens out, “I don’t give a damn where the samples come from. I care about delivering them cleanly. And I care about abnormalities. This,” he taps the patient’s screen with more gusto, “is an abnormality.”  
  
“How so? Uracil isn’t uncommon.”  
  
“It’s not. But … in her instance, levels are elevated. You see, Uracil is a nucleobase commonly found in RNA-”  
  
“I don’t need the high-school breakdown, Pryde,” he interrupts. He’s a doctor not a googly eyed pre-med snapping up every morsel of information a professor drops.  
  
“I understand. It’s just that … one of the lesser discussed functions of Uracil is its role in repairing faulty gene pairs before it’s swapped out for thiamine in DNA. Its presence in high concentrations usually indicates mutation. Now,” he straightens out because he’s _finally_ getting to the point, “typically mutation is considered a red flag for cancer. But in her case I see no markers.”  
  
Ben bops his head along. Okay, _mutation_. Yesterday that word would have given him the willies. Today? It’s lost the glimmer of novelty. It’s another word, one that’s manifested in his life rather quickly.  
  
“The DNA test I ran was rather short as we were pressed for time. Matt mentioned you’d wanted your results within a day so this is by no means a full breakdown. But I’d like to run full sequencing to delve deeper - with your permission of course. Whatever’s in her genes could be of great interest. Or, at the very least, worthy of the time involvement,” the geneticist rolls his wrist, “of sequencing.”  
  
“Hypothetically speaking, how long would it take for you to sequence?”  
  
The geneticist seems to mull it over. Hand scratching idly at his chin. Bright blue eyes fixed on the screen. “Probably a week barring unforeseen circumstances.”  
  
Now it’s Ben’s turn to mull things over.  
  
He doesn’t have a week. If he’s to venture a guess, he doesn’t have a _day_. Ezra had warned him he had 24 to 48 hours and though he’s not sure what exactly he was referring to, something inside him has already accepted that timeline. Knows that it’s in his (and Rey’s) best interest to heed it. And he’s down to … what? 23 hours now?   
  
One of the key points Ezra had made was finding somewhere quiet. So Ben begins cycling through location options mentally. He finds that the hospital makes his hair stand on end. A hotel makes him bristle even more. His house is better but apparently not enough to calm the anxious energy skittering just under his skin. Her house? That feels about right if the beginning rumble in his chest and calming energy flowing through him is to be believed.  
  
Ok so, ideally, her house is the best place to ride out whatever this first wave of the infection will be. And he has about 23 hours to get there.  
  
That means he needs to:

  * Get her discharge papers drafted
  * Talk to Holdo
  * Talk to Tico
  * Talk to his mother 
  * Get to Alaska



  
Easy peasy. Right?  
  
Well, considering he has 23 hours to accomplish everything, he’ll need to divvy up his time as efficiently as possible. So, which items are the most predictable in terms of their time values?   
  
The flight is about 6 hours (rounded up) plus another 2 for airport bullshit. That shaves approximately 8 hours off his countdown. So now he’s down to 15.  
  
It’ll also take … oh, let’s be conservative and estimate 45 minutes per Uber ride. There’s another hour and a half shaved off. 13.5 hours remaining.  
  
He’s not hyperventilating internally. He’s not. _He’s not.  
  
_ Because hyperventilating would mean he’s growing anxious about the fact that 48 hours is the absolute max on the timeline he’s been given and every hour closer _to_ that ceiling feels … dangerous?   
  
Ben’s never been one to hold off until the absolute last minute. Never been a slacker or procrastinator. Rather, the type who grabs the bull by the horns and gets shit out of the way as soon as possible. He’s never arrived late (rather fashionably early), he’s never handed assignments in on time (always the day before at the _latest_ ), and he always gives himself a buffer. _Always.  
  
_ Then there’s conversations. By his best estimate, Tico will take up at least an hour of his time. All by virtue of being the only one he can actually discuss newly presented symptomology and throw theories around with. He’s sure she’s formulated her own thoughts based on experience now so they’ll have something meaty to chomp on.  
  
Holdo? Watered down version. Half an hour if he words it just right, if not less. She doesn’t care about the _why_ so much as the _how._ He’ll stick to the baser facts and she can deal with spinning it to her liking. Of course he’ll put in a vacation request simultaneously. Yeah, half an hour is fine for that one.  
  
His mother is the biggest curveball. Ideally it’d be a 10 minute conversation. But then he knows she wields guilt like a finely crafted weapon. ‘You’re going to miss Shabbat dinner?’ She’ll ask with a deliberate warble in her voice. Not that she gives a shit. Shabbat dinner is usually the three of them going out to a fancy restaurant because she can’t be bothered to cook. And that’s only if she doesn’t have some sort of charity event booked, in which case he’s on his own, usually splayed out on his sofa with a takeout container. Still, it doesn’t mean guilt won’t be the first stone cast. Nor that she won’t proceed to drill said guilt home.  
  
 _Fuck_ okay … an hour to listen to his mom. Bonus points if he can split the conversation into two - 15 minutes soon and the remainder at the gate. That’s using his time wisely and a _very_ plausible concession.  
  
What are we down to?  
  
 **_11 hours. It’s not enough.  
  
_ ** _Gee thanks asshole.  
  
_ **_You didn’t want to listen.  
  
_ ** _Fuck off I’m working with what we’ve got.  
  
_ Then there’s the plane tickets. He still needs to acquire those. A lot of his timeline actually hinges on them. It’s the constant everything needs to fit around on that sliding scale and he has _yet_ to book a flight...  
  
“Doctor Solo?”  
  
 _Shit.  
  
_ “Yeah,” he blinks at the geneticist who’s apparently waiting for an answer?  
  
Pryde clears his throat, straightens out, “would you permit me to run full sequencing on her DNA?”  
  
“Yeah that’s fine,” a beat, then, “h-how long would it take you to sequence two samples?”  
  
The man considers for a moment. “Dr. Solo, I don’t think I’m equipped to sequence animal DNA. Not that we don’t have enough machinery, I just don’t have the knowledge to—”  
  
“No, not the wolf,” Ben interrupts, “another human.”  
  
“Well,” the geneticist’s brows raise, “I _could_ run them in tandem. Again, barring unforeseen circumstances. We have 2 HiSeq systems, so ... same time frame unless something else pops up.”  
  
“If I give you all the material now, would you bump it to the front of the line and begin immediately?”  
  
“I,” Pryde blusters, “don’t see why not.”  
  
“Okay, great. Is there a nurse available?”  
  
That seems to frazzle the man because he stares back at Ben dumbly.  
  
“I’m the other sample, Pryde,” he explains gruffly, “now, do you have someone on site who can take a blood sample? Or do you want me to go up to…”  
  
“No, yes. Of course. I can grab a nurse for you. I just,” he releases a long thoughtful breath through his nose, “why yourself?”  
  
Well, does he lie? Or is he upfront? Pryde seems like the scientific sort. He wouldn’t necessarily lose his shit over potential infection. Would he? Then again, people are strange like that, aren’t they? You think you’ve got a person figured out then you learn they hate pickles with a fiery passion. You never quite know what will tip a person’s scales and set off a panic.   
  
“I’ve been in contact with the patient,” it’s neither a lie nor a full truth, somewhere grey, somewhere in-between, “could be a worthy comparison _or_ a confirmation. Either way, now you have two test subjects.”  
  
Pryde’s lips mash together in thought, eyes glued to the screen where his pupils scan the lines of data. “Very well,” a curt nod, “follow me and we’ll get your sample drawn.”  
  
He _likes_ this guy. Where has he been all along? Tucked into the back of the lab? Preposterous! He wants him on his team. In fact, he’s going to ask Holdo about Pryde. A geneticist would be a spectacular addition.   
  
No, wait. He needs to talk to her about a potential outbreak at their hospital.  
  
Shit. Just when he finds the ideal candidate to grow his team, social duty calls. He should write himself a sticky note and paste it to his monitor. That’ll serve as a reminder … just like the other 50 he’s got on there.  
  
As he sits in the partitioned section of the lab where nurses busy themselves with drawing samples, he checks his phone.  
  
 **Tico:** _Two things.  
  
_ **Tico:** _Firstly, if I don’t answer when you call, don’t harass. I’ll call you again as soon as I’m able. Just keep your phone close.  
  
_ **Tico:** _Secondly, whatever the fuck this is makes you incredibly horny. Yes, TMI but … Shit!  
  
_ That’s not necessarily a revelation. He’d had a niggling feeling when he was manipulating her glands a few days ago. Found himself increasingly aroused as his own infection wore on. And whatever he did last night? Well...  
  
Fuck, now he _definitely_ needs to call Ezra.

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


Scribbling out a prescription for a psychoactive drug without the help of his neurologist was … difficult.  
  
Mostly because the ancient pharmacist refused to divulge _any_ information that would help him along. Then again, some random guy without a coat, scrubs _or_ nametag arriving to bark out orders for antipsychotics would probably raise suspicion. As it should.  
  
It was a spur of the moment decision. An idea that formed just in the periphery. If her serotonin was unbalanced, then perhaps a little something would help keep her balanced in the interim.   
  
He very carefully explained to the pharmacist who he was and what his business entailed. A benefit he doesn’t usually give _anyone_. It didn’t necessarily help that the prehistoric woman behind the counter eyed him wearily, picked up the phone and called Holdo for confirmation. He didn’t blame her, but he _does_ begrudge her the 15 minutes he’d wasted explaining the finer points of his case only to be shirked.  
  
“Holdo,” he bites after being asked to speak on the phone. Ben had the good sense to ask the pharmacist to place him on speaker, afraid of leaving any traces of potentially infectious material on the receiver...  
  
“Ben? That you?”  
  
“No, it’s the Krampus.”  
  
A moment of charged silence passes. Holdo must be considering how to admonish him for the ‘tasteless rebuttal’, Ben is _definitely_ thinking of which words to choose next in order to find the path of least resistance and the pharmacist? Well, she looks utterly perplexed by the way he’d just spoken to the Dean of Medicine.  
  
On a different note - that should have been a telling factor that he is indeed who he says he is. _Nobody_ dares talk to Holdo the way he does. Because nobody’s got the balls to.  
  
“Alright,” Holdos voice sighs on the phone, “that’s definitely Dr. Solo. Kalonia, help him out with whatever he needs.”  
  
Ben grins like a demented cat and the pharmacist’s eyes peel wide.  
  
 _That’s right, lady. You’re face to face with a legend.  
  
_ **_And you think I’m the problem? You had a complex long before I arrived.  
  
_ ** “His methods are unorthodox but they work,” Holdo continues unfazed, “send me a copy of the prescription once you fill it, please.”  
  
Ben doesn’t plan on being around for the inevitable shitstorm when she sees it. Especially considering Dameron filled one for prednisone yesterday. Holdo will try to chew him out for pumping her full of both corticosteroids _and_ antipsychotics.   
  
God he can hear her now in that screeching tone of hers, shrill like a wailing harpy. ‘She’s not a test subject, Benjamin. She’s a patient and if anything goes wrong because you’ve pumped her full of drugs ... can you _imagine_ the lawsuit on our hands?’  
  
Little does she know the prednisone is unnecessary now.  
  
 **_What’s an antipsychotic?  
  
_ ** _Not telling you.  
  
_ **_I can always dip into your brain bank and find out.  
  
_ ** _Be my guest and good luck!  
  
_ The receiver clicks in place and the pharmacist straightens her coat over her hunched body. “Alright, so antipsychotics you say?”  
  
“Yes. My neurologist is currently taking sick leave so I’m flying blind. Give me something …” well, what _do_ you ask for? Something that keeps the voice quiet? Something to tamp down the horny? If you have something with a scent block as a side effect, major bonus. Does anything also include a fever suppressant? It’s not a necessity, but would be a nice add-on.   
  
“Antipsychotics vary greatly, Dr. Solo. What are you trying to treat?”  
  
Well, isn’t that the question of the hour?  
  
“Something antimanic. The patient’s results indicate elevated serotonin levels. Maybe something that manages symptoms of,” _voices in your head_ , “schizophrenia? I’m not really sure. What does Dameron usually prescribe to patients with like symptoms?”  
  
“That’s against hospital policy,” she begins.  
  
“Fuck hospital policy,” Ben growls, “I’m not asking you to give me patient names and addresses. Just cross reference Dr. Dameron’s prescription history against the ailment then spit out the prescription. If there’s one he reaches for consistently that’s a great start. He can adjust the brand or dosage later but at least we’re getting a head start.”  
  
 _Not that it’ll matter yet anyway.  
  
_ God he hopes Dameron actually deals with these types of symptoms. Neurology is _not_ psychiatry. Sure, he could place a call and talk to the head of _that_ department but it’s a surefire way to waste time. The psychiatrist will probably want to study her chart, talk to her, _analyze_ her. He doesn’t have time for that.   
  
_It’s just temporary.  
  
_ The woman hesitates and he’s _this_ close to blowing a gasket. He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off annoyance yet again. An act that he’s repeated so often in the last 24 hours he might just snap his nose off next time.  
  
“Do you want to call Holdo again for permission? Because I assure you, she’ll give it.”  
  
“N-no. Give me a moment,” the woman stammers.  
  
So that’s how Ben finds himself pacing the empty staff corridor behind the pharmacy waiting for a prescription of 10mg (low dose according to the bag of bones behind the counter) Abilify. Prescription scribbled in the name of one Rey Niima by his own hand in haste.  
  
The woman had asked him for half an hour to fill so he’s taken to trodding an impression of his (now dirty) Jordans into the freshly mopped tiles of the hallway.  
  
The entire ordeal has set him back an hour. From having to foot a call with Holdo to confirm his identity to the dance around which brand to prescribe and now the wait time for the prescription to be filled … he’s anxious. No, irritated. Wait, definitely anxious. Actually … both.  
  
It doesn’t help that he’s certain the drug is already stocked and a half hour is the gen pop estimate for filling a prescription. He’s convinced this is Kalonia making a stand against his brusque treatment by making him wait instead of just grabbing the drug and handing it over.  
  
For once, he’ll bite his tongue.  
  
He only needs it temporarily. Just enough to quiet their inner voices. It’s a precaution and it may not even work but it’s a chance he needs to take in order get her to somewhere safe - to get her home.  
  
“Benny,” _oh God not her_ , “where have you been honey? No one’s up in your offices. I’ve been looking for you to discuss tomorrow night’s dinner.”  
  
“Ma,” he answers curtly, “I don’t have time for this.”  
  
Because he doesn’t.   
  
**_Not to interrupt but…  
  
_ ** _You’re always interrupting.  
  
_ **_I’m going to ignore that. Since I’m privy to your thoughts, maybe you can kill two birds with one stone?  
  
_ ** _Look who’s suddenly articulate.  
  
_ **_I spend a lot of time in your head.  
  
_ ** _Then why do you ask stupid questions?  
  
_ **_Have you seen your mind? It’s a fucking mess of movie quotes and sarcastic post-facto rebuttals. It’s a house of horrors is what it is...  
  
_ ** _You’re not real.  
  
_ **_And you’re not a dick, but that’s besides the point. Maybe you can tell Ma now. She can deal with the Witch of Medicine and that frees us up to get to our mate?  
  
_ ** _First of all, I knew you’d find a way to drop that word in. Secondly … that’s not bad.  
  
_ **_We’re a team.  
  
_ ** _Nope. You’re a parasite.  
  
_ Releasing a long breath he looks up (well, down really) at his mother. Still bundled up in another rendition of palazzo pants and giant scarf obscuring whatever flouncy blouse she’s hiding under there.   
  
“Ma,” he cowers, eyes darting around the hallway in search of seats, “c-can we talk?”  
  
She approaches with open arms, ready to get her hug as usual since they’re alone. Ben only holds his hands up shaking his head.  
  
 _Not a good idea.  
  
_ **_She’s already been in contact. I can smell it.  
  
_ ** _Pffft … nice try. How do I know you’re not just saying this to spread your DNA?  
  
_ **_The only place I want to spread our DNA is in our mate. If you just let me …  
  
_ ** _Oooh no you don’t.  
  
_ **_*sigh*  
  
_ ** Ben stretches his arm out towards a bench in invitation. He won’t sit though, just in case. So when his mother does slip onto one of the cushioned seats, he squats down in front of her, meeting her at eye level while leaning against the opposite wall.  
  
“Ma, this is all going to sound crazy,” he starts carefully, throat raspy and dry, “but I want you to let me get it all out. Then we can talk.”  
  
His mother’s head tilts to the side suspiciously, chin raised high in that ‘I'm listening’ way of hers. But she’s also crossed her leg and folded her hands over her lap in a way that says she’s waiting to hear the pitch. Like he’s a sales rep offering funding in return for exclusive pharmaceutical rights to one drug or another.   
  
He swallows thickly, the gob of saliva scraping his throat like a chainsaw grinding stone. “There’s going to be — correction, there _is_ an outbreak.”  
  
He lets the revelation seep in. Lets it fester in the air between them and watches her expression carefully. Her eyes flash for a moment, the corners of her mouth pucker and her brows pulse up ever so slightly before settling back.   
  
It’s a hell of a bomb to drop on someone. Especially someone whose institution has a reputation to uphold. And he doesn’t know how the other hospitals dealt with it, for all he knows they might be blissfully unaware that it’s even infiltrated their walls, but he’s sure his mother is already doing the mental math on containment.  
  
“The new diagnostics case y- _we_ picked up … Rey, she carries an unknown strain of … _something_. It’s shown up on none of the labs, none of the tests. It follows no known path of infection. No one had picked up on it at her various other hospital visits and yet … here we are. She’s been in contact with various staff and has spread this … infection. It’s only a matter of time until it gets out.”  
  
His mother nods once. The crepey skin of her neck bobbing on a swallow as she works to keep her features impassive. Ben knows he’s dumping a whole load of crazy. But he also knows that his mother’s unwavering trust in his diagnostics skills, nay _him,_ means she takes this revelation as God’s word.  
  
“What’s the mortality rate?”  
  
He blinks dumbfounded. Her question delivered with an air of indifference. Like they’re talking about projected influenza cases for the season.  
  
“So far, none.”  
  
It’s the truth. And maybe saying it out loud dislodges the stone that had settled in his gut. The weight of dread … of the utter failure he’s been as a physician. As a front line worker dedicated to protecting people from disease and saving lives.   
  
Whatever this is, it hasn’t _actually_ hurt anyone. No more than it’s mutated some sweat glands, increased aggression in some and (according to Tico) horniness. The irony of it all doesn’t escape him - Tico, the very same physician who insisted horny couldn’t be a symptom, now admitting that horny is, in fact, a symptom. Ben smiles to himself knowingly.  
  
“Ben, you can’t just spring some pandemic level bull on me then give me nothing to work with. If we have a potential outbreak on our hands I need to start dealing with it immediately,” she fixes him with a ruthless stare. Gone is the mother that pretends to care about Shabbat dinner and grandbabies. The woman sitting before him is the philanthropist whose golden child (the hospital) is under siege by a microscopic villain.  
  
“So, start talking honey. What symptoms are we looking at? How many potentially infected? What’s the treatment plan?” She thinks over her words before leaning forward just a touch, hand draping over her knee, “I’ll drag the others down with us if push comes to shove. 5 hospitals that couldn’t get it right? If we go down, they’re coming right down with us. We’ll look like heroes for figuring it out. So … symptoms?”  
  
Aah there she is. The spitfire war general who isn’t afraid to use a little ill gained information in order to further her cause. ‘Intelligence,’ she likes to say, ‘is the lifeblood of progress. Always know your competition and use their weakness to your advantage.’  
  
“Right now the only symptoms we have are those she came in with - fever, arrhythmia, profuse sweating, hallucinations, confusion, agitation … I’m not going to recite her file. It’s in my office if you wanna read it. The new ones we’ve discovered are mutated glands, elevated levels of dopamine and serotonin, and a potential…” how does he frame this delicately for his mother, “increase in arousal.”  
  
Her arms unwind and she begins tapping her oxblood manicured nails against the soft leatherette seats on either side of her. “That’s it?”  
  
 _What do you mean ‘that’s it’?  
  
_ **_Even Ma doesn’t think it’s so bad. Maybe you should…  
  
_ ** _No one asked you. And that’s_ my _mother, not yours.  
  
_ **_We’re one and the same.  
  
_ ** _Fuck off.  
  
_ The voice sighs again.  
  
Ben nods at his mother.  
  
“How bad is the fever?”  
  
“Manageable with ibuprofen. Nothing that could endanger critical body function. No major temperature spikes.”  
  
“And the agitation?”  
  
Ben thinks for a moment, “also manageable. I suspect it might be directly related to, uh, arousal.”  
  
“Well I don’t see what the problem is. We’ve got an influx of feel good neurotransmitters and people are going to be hornier. They’ll need to take an ibuprofen for the fever and maybe an Ativan or get laid. Sounds perfectly fine.”  
  
He hadn’t thought of it quite that way…  
  
“Ma…” she’s right but the point still remains, “it’s infectious. Do you understand? I don’t know the extent to which this is going to affect the human body yet. No one does.”  
  
“I understand, and I’m sure you’ll work out the finer details. What _I am_ pointing out is that it doesn’t sound too bad. You started your pitch like you’d discovered the next ebola virus. Fact is, bugs hit all the time. Sometimes they do nothing, other times they wreak havoc. If this one isn't harming anyone, we could put out a release stating we've discovered something new, and let the labs go nuts with it. They'll study it, catalogue it, but ... if it's not killing people, we shouldn't catastrophize.”  
  
Ben chews on his lower lip. Is he blowing this out of proportion? His mother is making it seem like it’s just a cold. Actually … a cold has worse symptoms from what he knows so far. Then again, his horny hadn’t hit quite like it hit Tico. Maybe she’ll know more...  
  
“Alright," his mother concedes to his silence, "I’ll run some damage control scenarios with Amilyn. In the meantime you work on figuring out trajectory and treatment?”  
  
“About that…”  
  
Ben swipes his hand over his face roughly. How does he tell her this? ‘I most certainly plan on keeping a detailed journal while I most likely fuck my patient in Alaska because that’s what a voice in my head is telling me to do’? Does he even tell her this?   
  
He doesn’t acknowledge that whether the voice is involved or not, fucking his patient sounds like a marvelous idea. She’s beautiful, smart … in another life he would probably have tripped over himself trying to woo her. And Ben Solo does _not_ woo.   
  
If they do things backwards, maybe it’ll shave the awkward edge off him. Give him a real chance. Sure, it's unorthodox, but nothing about their situation has been orthodox in the first place...  
  
“Dr. Solo?”  
  
The back door to the pharmacy has opened. The pharmacist is standing there with a little amber vial rattling in her hand. “Miss Niima’s prescription as per your request,” she holds her hand out.  
  
His mother says nothing while he straightens out and grabs the prescription without touching hands or exchanging thank yous. Asks nothing when he returns. Not when he deposits the vial into his pant pocket. Not when he crosses his arms in front of his chest turning back to his internal deliberations.  
  
“What’s that?” She finally asks, curiosity getting the best of her.  
  
“Abilify,” he cracks his knuckles with his thumb, “antipsychotic.”  
  
“Testing theories?”  
  
Ben nods pressing his lips together, “something like that.”  
  
“Perfect,” she claps her hands together, pushing up to a standing position and opening her arms for her hug, “you keep trudging along with your diagnosis and I’ll take care of public perception and keeping the media abreast. Now, Shabbat dinner?”  
  
“I… Ma,” he sighs, “I caught it.”  
  
The penny drops.   
  
Leia Organa-Solo is good at a great many things. She keeps her composure in the face of adversity, has helped fund multiple medical programs in the name of science and has created one of the best institutions in the country for both its staff and incoming patients.   
  
On the personal front she’s managed to navigate high society and keep up with appearances while projecting an air of ease. She has a happy marriage, a doting husband, and a son whose accomplishments she can parade at every dinner party (even if he’s an asshole). But mama Leia does _not_ forget her mothering roots when her baby bird is sick.  
  
“You what?!”  
  
Ben turns his head, sweeps his hair off to the side and reveals his proverbial scarlet letter, “see? Gland. This is what they look like. If you see these, it’s an infection.”  
  
“Benny! What are we going to do? Did you take an ibuprofen? How’s your fever? Do you want me to make you Bubbee’s chicken soup? I’ll go get you a camomile tea with honey…”  
  
“Ma, it’s fine. Remember?” he interrupts rattling the amber vial in his pocket, “it’s nothing a little fever suppressant and an Ativan won’t manage, like you said.”  
  
His mother begins to bluster, “that was before I knew _you_ caught it. This changes things significantly.”  
  
“Listen, Ma,” he runs his fingers over his jaw and goatee, “I’m going to need some time off to deal with this. And I’m probably going to be away. D-do you think maybe you could…”  
  
“I’ll talk to Amilyn. Of course.”  
  
“Good,” he exhales relief, “thank you.”  
  
“And where will you be going?”  
  
“Uh,” time to tread carefully, “just … away. To deal with the … uh … symptoms and umm, test theories till I get better.”  
  
He’s already started his retreat. The longer he sticks around his mother, the higher the probability he’ll get grilled. And he does _not_ have time for anymore Q&A with his mother. God forbid she figure out that sex might be involved…  
  
“You’ll talk to Amilyn and put in my sick leave?” His question is asked as he turns away towards the doors.  
  
“I will,” his mother nods, “wait a minute!”  
  
 _Fuck.  
  
_ **_Ma is a scary woman.  
  
_ ** _No shit Sherlock.  
  
_ Ben’s already doubled his pace walking towards the double doors. He is _not_ sticking around for this. Nope. He needs to make a call. No, two calls. But most importantly, he needs to get to his patient whose lorazepam drip’s been off for a fucking _hour_ . She’s bound to be up and her scent could be luring in others.  
  
 **_You’re definitely getting it.  
  
_ ** _Shut up.  
  
_ “Benny! Are you going to have sex?”  
  
 _Oh fucking hell.  
  
_ “Not telling,” he yells back.  
  
“Is she Jewish?”  
  
 _Please, if there is a God, make it stop. Make her stop.  
  
_ “Don’t give a fuck, Ma,” he throws over his shoulder.  
  
“Well, I’m not getting any younger so-” _is she fucking laughing?_ “-if you’ll be off doing _that_ for a week _and_ missing Shabbat dinner … I’m expecting grandbabies.”  
  
 _Please, if there is a God, let the earth open up and swallow me whole._

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


Tico doesn’t answer.   
  
So he doesn’t leave voicemail. What’s the point when they already text each other?  
  
 **_She’s in rut.  
  
_ ** _What does that even…  
  
_ _Oh.  
  
_ **_Won’t hear from her for a few days. Maybe longer. Didn’t get to smell her mate. Can’t be sure.  
  
_ ** Ben does the next best thing with that information. He Googles the SRWR and places the call. Demands to speak with Mr. Bridger and is promptly connected to the man in question.  
  
“Dr. Solo,” there’s laughter in his voice, “so good to hear from you.”  
  
There’s a drawn out sigh on the line before Ezra begins speaking again. “You’re still trying to diagnose her, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’ve drafted her release papers,” he offers curtly, “and I’m ready to heed your advice. In fact, I’m planning on booking a flight out to Anchorage today but before I do, I need you to be 100% transparent with me and explain what’s going on.”  
  
A throat is cleared on the line, “alright, what have you discovered thus far?”  
  
“I don’t have _time_ to play this game, _Ezra,_ ” he spits venom, emotions churning like a storm roughened sea, “I know those things on the neck are glands. I know what a fucking human knot looks like unfortunately … I know this all has something to do with mating or something but … _fuck_ … explain everything you know before I lose my shit.”  
  
“Oh you’re going to be an Alpha to be reckoned with,” the man laughs. Ben focuses on calming his breathing while he waits for Ezra to finish whatever line of pleasantry he’s started on.  
  
“I’m surprised you’ve been able to restrain yourself from going into rut.” Ezra’s voice doesn’t have the same friendly tone he’d had last time they’d spoken. It’s not even the same tone from 30 seconds ago. He’s turned serious. A level of control in his voice that’s both unnerving and satisfying. “Okay. Do people smell good to you?”  
  
“Yes,” he hisses.  
  
“Some more than others, right?”  
  
“Yes,” Ben wants to smash the receiver against his desk until it’s nothing but pulverized plastic powder. He’s specifically asked Ezra not to play games and yet here he is playing 20 questions.  
  
“Tell me … in comparison to the other pleasant smells, how does Rey smell?”  
  
“Like,” his eyes drift up to the door, immersing in memory before he responds softly, “home. She’s the strongest scent. Even when I manage to dampen the others hers remains.”  
  
“Dampen the others?”  
  
“Yes,” he mumbles, “I found steroid nasal spray helps dampen the majority of scents.”  
  
“Impressive.”  
  
“Thanks,” Ben drawls. There’s silence on the line for a moment.  
  
“It sounds to me like she’s your mate.” The delivery is flat, factual, holds no nonsense.  
  
 **_Told you.  
  
_ ** _Shut up.  
  
_ **_Can we go bite now?  
  
_ ** “Now listen to me carefully,” Ezra continues, “if your rut is triggered that means she’s going into heat. Now I know Rey, which is to say she’s probably explained some formalities of wolf mating?”  
  
“Unfortunately I now know too much about wolves fucking,” he swallows thickly.  
  
“Okay. It’s going to be a bit different but … be gentle, listen to your Alpha-”  
  
“What Alpha?” Ben interrupts.  
  
“That voice, in your head? I know you can hear him. Probably sounds like you and chimes in every once in a while. That’s your Alpha manifest. Your primal self and your guide through your transition and presentation. He’s you and you’re him and … I’ll explain the finer points once you’re out of rut and we have more time. I’m sure you’ll want to compare notes, but for now, please don’t interrupt again.”  
  
Ben’s hackles rise at the condescending tone.  
  
 **_Ha. I’m your Alpha.  
  
_ ** _You’re annoying. Just like this guy.  
  
_ **_He’s an Alpha too. We don’t like other Alphas much. Competition for mate.  
  
_ ** _Aah, a lecture. Thank you professor parasite.  
  
_ **_Didn’t you hear him? We’re one and the same.  
  
_ ** If he’s sticking his tongue out mentally to that obnoxious voice … this ‘Alpha manifest’, well, deep down he’s a petulant child. Whatever.  
  
“So,” Ezra picks up his monologue, “listen to your Alpha. I’m not going to lecture you on the ins-and-outs of sex — you two will figure that out on your own — but I will tell you that the knot takes about half an hour to deflate. Don’t try to disconnect before. It’ll hurt like hell. You’ll want to set aside a week of uninterrupted time. If it’s shorter, good for you. But aim for more time than less. Find a place that’s private and secure. Make sure your fridge is stocked and you’re both drinking plenty of fluids … and I don’t mean each other’s. You’ll be taken over by an intense urge to mate so eating and drinking will fall to the wayside. It’s your responsibility to make sure you both make it out healthy.”  
  
Jesus fucking Christ this is a lot of info. Ben’s mind is reeling.   
  
Last time Ezra gave him a watered down version and it confused him. This time there’s a level of acceptance coursing through him that snaps up every morsel of information and internalizes it. Imprints it to his memory like the words are his own personal roadmap.   
  
And deeper down, Ben realizes everything Ezra is saying will ring true.   
  
He wonders briefly if his Costco trip was his subconscious preparing for the inevitable...  
  
“H-how do you know all this?”  
  
“I just went with the flow when it happened to me. Now, don’t interrupt," Ezra sighs, "she won’t be coherent. Heat can take a lot out of an Omega.”  
  
“An Omega?”  
  
“What did I just say about interrupting?”  
  
Ben grits his teeth. Holds his tongue from lashing whatever snarky remark’s building in the back of his throat in favour of getting himself through this. “Sorry,” he scowls.  
  
“Did I forget something?” His voice sounds far away. Enough for Ben to not be surprised when he hears a feminine voice chime ‘mating bite’ in the background.  
  
“Right, the mating bite. Dr. Solo, have you noticed a larger patch of reddened skin on both yourself and Rey?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That’s your mating gland. If she’s your mate … if she’s _the one_ break the skin. Mark her. Your Alpha will know what that means,” he clears his throat, “but if she’s not … and again, your Alpha will know ... then whatever you do, don’t break the skin. Do you understand?”  
  
“I … yes. I understand.”  
  
Ben hears a relieved exhale from the other end of the line. “Okay. That’s all I’ve got,” Ezra’s voice has lifted back to that friendly lilt, “so, when’s the flight?”  
  
Is it normal to not feel abashed about _planning_ to fuck his patient? _And_ getting her employer help organize what’ll apparently be a week long tryst?  
  
Ben shrugs. “I haven’t booked it yet.”  
  
“This is going to sound unorthodox but … may I please help?”  
  
“How could you possibly help?”  
  
Ezra chuckles, a sound that Ben doesn’t think will ever _not_ get him riled up or ratchet his annoyance up to max. “Well I’m assuming you’ll need her passport number to book the flight and Sabine’s been kind enough to dig it up from our records. I happen to have it on hand _right now_.”  
  
 **_That is helpful.  
  
_ ** _You know what isn’t? You chiming in at inopportune moments.  
  
_ Ben spends the next 30 minutes scouring last minute flights with Ezra. Selecting the earliest available one at 4:00 PM, and booking it based on the details the man shares over the phone.  
  
Sitting back and staring at the now cradled receiver, he takes a deep shuddering breath.  
  
This is it, is’t it?  
  
He’s managed to get them a flight, he’s drafted up her discharge papers, he’s spoken to his mother, has confirmation that Holdo will be dealt with and that vacation time will be booked. In his pocket he’s got a vial of antipsychotics he _hopes_ will keep the voice quiet enough to get them to Anchorage without incident.  
  
There’s only one more thing he needs to do…  
  
 **_Let’s go get our mate._ **

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey … you made it! I’ve got some bad news. I’ve written exactly 1 more line for Chapter 10 since the last update. So that means I’m breaking the daily update. Apparently I was over-confident in my ability to hammer it out. I _assumed_ I’d found a rhythm. Ha! Creativity’s a fleeting bitch.
> 
> Anyway. Uracil is a real thing. It really does exist in RNA and it really does get replaced by thiamine in DNA. Don’t @ me if you’re into genetics because I’ve played fast and loose with it beyond that. That shit’s always confused me. I’m a nerd of different proportions. 
> 
> I’ll go back and stare at my word doc now until the tumbleweeds stop rolling and words decide to reappear...
> 
> **Curious about this stuff?**   
>  [Uracil (nucleobase)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uracil)   
>  [Genetic Sequencing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DNA_sequencing)   
>  [DNA Sequencer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DNA_sequencer)   
>  [Schizophrenia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schizophrenia)   
>  [Abilify (aka Aripiprazole)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aripiprazole)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is it. The moment of truth. The culmination of a day’s worth of anxiety, if not more. The proverbial peak. The gates to Mordor. Once he opens them he’s at the mercy of his Alpha. The mercy of her._
> 
> _She’s unlike anyone he’s ever met. She’s gentle yet firm. She’s beautiful. The 0.01% that managed to capture his attention but she has an undeniable edge of sarcasm that’s managed to arouse him well before the scents and the mutations turned him into a walking hard-on._
> 
> _She’s educated, smart, factual, can go toe to toe with him. She quotes movies most people dismiss as idiotic. Finds the punchline and wields it expertly to elevate conversation. She’s adorable when she pouts, infuriating when she argues, fearsome when she’s angry, and downright lovable when she melts into him. She fits him the way the puzzle pieces of her ailment have started fitting. She’s the key made to fit his lock, rusted and unused as it may be._
> 
> _If it hadn’t been for her condition, he might have never met her. Her. This beautiful, weird, quirky, unlikely human cut from the same cloth._
> 
> _She’s his mate in every sense of the word and just beyond that door…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One eternity later ... 
> 
> In case you're wondering what had me blocked for 2 weeks ... everything below he microscopes minus the very last line :/
> 
> Shoutout to McDrogo for the Jerry Maguire reference. She picks up my train of thought every time I derail (and that happens more frequently than I'd like to admit). You're a life saver and without you I don't know how this whole thing would have turned out <3
> 
> Without further ado ... I give you two sarcastic little shits figuring things out...

Time has become liquid. Where before it was light as air, flowing freely around him, it’s somehow grown heavy. The added weight blanketing his senses, like sinking to the bottom of a pool’s deep end. Pressure compounded, squeezing. Stifling.   
  
He can feel every second tick. A little like that time he’d gotten too stoned with his roommate Andor after they’d taken their MCATs and he’d wound up staring at the creases in his palms for hours. Imagining patterns and finding new crossroads.  
  
Everything feels like it’s in slow motion. Like he’s walking under water or wading through mud. Every step he takes carries him to what feels like destiny. The hallways aren’t hallways, they’re the paths to his final destination. Like Frodo climbing the stairs of Cirith Ungol. Except there’s no Shelob on the other side. There’s no army of orcs to evade or the waiting bowels of Mount Doom. There’s only a weight of finality to this journey that he swallows down like a mucous glob.  
  
After this, there’s no turning back.  
  
It feels he’s on the precipice of something life changing. Something that’ll not only shake his world to the core, but shatter it completely. It does, however, hold an edge of promise. Something hopeful and wholesome. Like taking the existing pieces and rearranging them into something better. Like it’s the exact evolution needed to complete him, make him _stronger_.  
  
It’s an ironic thing, this feeling of anticipation. The idea that whatever it is he’s walking towards will change him for the better. Ben’s always believed himself to be just right. Like Goldilocks’ porridge. Not too hot, not too cold … _just_ right. He was, wasn’t he? Just right?   
  
He has a house, a fulfilling career, his peer’s esteem, his opinion sought after. On paper he’s got it made minus the procreation/relationship business. Not that he’d ever seen the value in it. For the return, the input always seemed disproportionate, so he learned to satisfy his own needs and found loopholes to curb his baser human needs. In short, his life was perfectly fine before all this.  
  
Why then, does it feel like he’s becoming the missing link? Why does he feel like he’s become a biological anomaly? And why is he the only one seemingly aware of this? The only one worried about the implications of the urges he’s being pressured to cave to?  
  
Is this train of thought the infection’s doing? Or his own?  
  
A TV drones on in the lounge he passes. The reporter rattles off details about an aggravated assault in the greater Coruscant area. As he puts distance between himself and the open lounge door, he hears the reporter’s voice grow dimmer as it recites the possibility, this attack is linked to similar acts of aggression across the western seaboard.  
  
When he rounds the corner to the elevator, there’s a nurse curled in on herself. She’s laying on the floor clutching her stomach crying. The bottoms of her scrubs soiled and wet. The fabric darkened with whatever’s seeped between her legs. He should ask if she’s okay. He should help but…  
  
There’s a cloying sweetness in the air. It’s the type of scent that’s affecting. It makes his skin crawl. His jaw clenches and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His male anatomy twitches against the confines of his pants in response to just inhaling.  
  
This is the same nurse who’d smelled like rotten roses yesterday. Today that scent makes him want to squirm out of his own skin. It’s still not the delectable jasmine, but the smell of roses has intensified to borderline smothering proportions. He really should check if she’s...  
  
 **_Don’t. That’s not her. Not our mate.  
  
_ ** _I know that dipshit.  
  
_ **_Then keep moving.  
  
_ ** Ben nods to himself, resolutely ignoring the whimpering woman even if his glands itch. Even if his fingers tingle. Even when he barely hears her whisper ‘please’ and ‘alpha’. Pleas his body _wants_ to react to.   
  
His voice … his _Alpha_ says no. So he grits his teeth and presses the button, focusing on holding his breath until the soft ding of the doors offers him reprieve from the sensory assault.  
  
 **_Good. I appreciate you listening.  
  
_ ** _Don’t get used to it.  
  
_ **_*sigh*  
  
_ ** His skin feels drawn tight as the doors of the elevator close behind him, leaving him blessedly alone and cut off from the offending scent on the trip to the 4th floor. He feels like a piece of leather strung out to cure. Drawn so tight he might as well be a sunbaked trampoline mat, overstretched and ready to split with the slightest pressure.  
  
His glands throb. The ones on the side of the neck feel like they’re pulsing in time with his heart beat. They feel like they’re oozing. At the very least, he thinks they are, because the ends of his hair paint wet trails where they graze other parts of his neck.   
  
His _mating_ gland throbs. A new term he’s only learned in the last 15 minutes but it lends a whole new weight to his predicament. Another pound added to the heft of finality. It feels itchy but he discovers scratching doesn’t relieve the need. Putting pressure on it does but at what cost? A wave of arousal trickles down his spine with the press of his fingers and he bites his cheek trying to refrain from groaning.   
  
_Alright, pressure doesn’t quite fix the itch there.  
  
_ **_Teeth will.  
  
_ ** Ben shoves his hands into his pant pockets. Fingers grasping the vial of pills and wriggling it like a toddler with a rattle. It gives him something to focus on. To take his mind off the churning in his gut and the heaviness in his chest. The slight vibrations of the rattling pills gives his hand something to feel while he waits for the slow descent of the elevator.  
  
He clutches the vial tighter when the doors open, when he steps out onto a landing. Clutches it as he takes a deep breath and continues his trek towards what feels like both impending doom and the threshold of his future.   
  
He doesn’t know what awaits him the minute he’ll walk into her room. He doesn’t know if he’s in the right frame of mind to console her if she’s in a state, doesn’t know what to _do_ once he’s there. He only knows that he’s been told to trust his alpha.   
  
Ironic. Ben doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t him. Never has.   
  
Everything he’s achieved, everything he owns has been of his own volition. Sure, he’d used his mother’s infamy here and there, but no more than others use whatever advantages they find in their corner.  
  
Her title didn’t get him into medical school, _he_ did that. Her title didn’t get him the marks to accrue a double specialty, _he_ did that. And if her money was used to put himself through medical school, well, he’s both repaid her in full _and_ made back double in revenue.  
  
Right now though, he needs to _trust_ this alpha manifestation … this primal thing. Whatever foreign mutation his body has incubated and has breathed cognizant life to. And he has trouble consolidating that trust, handing it over even if it’s to a _part_ of himself. So naturally, there’s an undercurrent of anxiety with every step he takes.  
  
 **_I’ve always been part of you, you know?  
  
_ ** _Bullshit.  
  
_ **_I’m serious.  
  
_ ** _I suppose you’ll try to convince me I’ve always been a neanderthal wolf-hybrid looking to bite a woman?  
  
_ **_You’re a doctor. Think about it.  
  
_ ** _Believe me, I have been.  
  
_ **_*gasp* okay. I’ve dipped into your memory and I’ve got proof.  
  
_ ** _Please, enlighten me.  
  
_ **_You think this is mutation. Well, the closest I could find in your mind is cancer. How fast does a tumor grow?  
  
_ ** _About—  
  
_ **_Estimates based on the last research paper you read was 3 years or between screenings. At least for inflammatory bowel disease. Did I develop in 3 years?  
  
_ ** _Well … no.  
  
_ **_Exactly. See? Everything was already inside you.  
  
_ ** That’s … a fair point. Mutations don’t manifest overnight, or, in his case, a handful of days. They take time, starting with a single faulty cell. If the mutation was the source of this infection, then he would have felt symptoms long before. But he didn’t. Things came to a head only recently.  
  
 _Like it’s always been inside and contact with Rey was the catalyst to present what was already there. Like it was dormant and just needed a nudge.  
  
_ **_There you go. Have a little faith. It’s your body waking up.  
  
_ ** Ben. The man who’s always in control. The man who doesn’t do anything by halves. The man who memorizes a restaurant menu off their website before even _booking_ a table. That man. That’s the man walking blindly into something that’s overwhelming his senses.  
  
That’s the man being told to have faith in … what?  
  
There’s an edge of excitement and even a little hope. A little bit like the silver lining on a cloud. Like a streak of light in a dark room. Just enough to make out where you are and what you’re doing.  
  
 **_You’re doing great, Ben. You’ve got a flight, you’ve got her release papers. You’re a natural.  
  
_ ** _What the fuck are you doing?  
  
_ **_Just thought you could use some words of encouragement. You feel tense.  
  
_ ** Ben snorts out loud derisively. Of course now that the tides have turned, this voice … this _Alpha_ … would start cheering him on. He’s getting his way, _of course_ he’s full of positivity.  
  
 **_This is for both of us.  
  
_ ** _Suuuuure.  
  
_ The minute he rounds the corner into ICU he picks up her scent. It’s faint this far away but it lures him in, tickles his nostrils and latches onto his hindbrain. Like a cartoon character inhaling the beckoning fingers of a steaming pie, he’s helplessly floating towards the centre of his world now. Incapable of doing anything but put one foot in front of the other to close the distance.  
  
Trust. He needs to _trust.  
  
_ He can do that. He can find it in him, right? To trust himself into another’s hands? If not his ‘manifest alpha’, then maybe her. He can trust her.  
  
Sure she’s a sarcastic little shit with a wit that rivals his own, but she likes him enough to banter with him. Likes him enough to let him touch her. He could trust _her.  
  
_ **_Stop worrying. Remember what she said yesterday?  
  
_ ** _That I have nice dimples?  
  
_ **_And that we smell good. We have nothing to worry about.  
  
_ ** _Riiiiiight. But…  
  
_ **_I’ve been in your head. You put yourself down too much. You’re very worthy.  
  
_ ** Well ... that feels kind of nice, actually. Some acknowledgement even if it’s from a _maybe_ parasite. Ben smiles to himself as he takes a sharp right towards her room.  
  
Janice is standing in front of his patient’s door arguing with a male nurse. He’s smashing his fist into the adjacent wall demanding entry. Nostrils flaring as he continues to verbally assault Rey’s loyal guardian who’s firmly rooted to the spot, arms crossed over her chest and face impassive.  
  
There’s the scent of aggression in the air. Something feral and raw. Something charged with sexual tension. It doesn’t smell like _her._ It smells like … **_Him_**.  
  
“ **Fuck off,** ” Ben bellows, thundering down the hall.  
  
“No,” the nurse growls, “I _have_ to go in there and this … this _bitch_ isn’t getting out of the way.”  
  
 **_May I?  
  
_ ** _What are you going to do?  
  
_ **_Compel him to fuck off.  
  
_ ** _I don’t trust you not to do something stupid.  
  
_ The male nurse is staring dagger at Janice who, in turn, continues to keep her eyes trained on him calmly. Her expression betraying no signs of fear or cowardice.   
  
Ben’s going to clock this fuck. The scent alone makes him want to commit murder. He could do it too. Wrap his hand around that skinny neck and squeeze...  
  
 **_Ben, we have one shared goal, right?  
  
_ ** _Enlighten me.  
  
_ **_Rey…  
  
_ ** _Okay, yes.  
  
_ **_If I did something stupid, would we get to Rey?  
  
_ ** _Probably not, no.  
  
_ **_And I’m always waxing poetic about her, right?  
  
_ ** _Y-yes…  
  
_ **_So do you think I’d do something to risk her?  
  
_ ** _Well fuck.  
  
_ _Fine.  
  
_ Trust, right?  
  
Within seconds he feels a foreign warmth surround him. It feels like he’s slipping into a warm coat. A new energy wrapping around him like a second skin. Hot and heavy but reassuring. When he speaks, he barely recognizes his own voice.   
  
“I believe Janice asked you to leave,” his pitch is low. A thread of danger twined into the fibers of his tone.  
  
The male nurse’s nostrils flare again. His fists clench and teeth grind as he turns to Ben. His pupils are blown wide and he smells … acrid. Like anger and rage and lust all at once. Something bitter and smoky hits him like a wet towel.  
  
“Beaumont,” Janice starts gently, obviously not rattled, “this is Dr. Solo. The patient in the room is _his_.”  
  
His eyes drift down to the nurse’s neck … this Beaumont. Sure enough there’s glands on either side of his neck, probably one below the collar of his scrubs on his trapezius too. He’s shorter than Ben by 5 inches. Smaller too by all accounts. And yet he stands resolute, ready to fight. His body language wordlessly communicating as much.  
  
Ben’s skin breaks out in goosebumps. He feels himself vibrate, trying to hold back the force which he’s ready to unleash against this threat to his mate…  
  
 **_Ben, I told you I’ve got this. Let me handle it.  
  
_ ** That second skin grips tighter, blurring the edges of his vision as it takes hold. It feels like being submersed in a dream. Everything’s soft and hazy. Everything feels more … visceral.  
  
“Leave,” it’s not him talking. But it’s his voice ringing in the empty hall. A forcefully expelled word that holds some form of compulsion making the other man shrink. It bounces off the walls and reverberates like an echo, loud and dangerous.   
  
Beaumont’s pupils shrink back to normal. His mouth drops open as he gazes up at Ben, confusion flitting across his horrified eyes. He stutters an apology and begins to walk away gripping his head.  
  
As the male nurse retreats, Ben feels the second skin lift. Peel itself off him, sharpening his vision as it recedes.  
  
 **_There. Told you to trust me.  
  
_ ** _I … thank you?  
  
_ “Use a nasal steroid,” he calls after Beaumont, “and take a week off. Talk to Holdo if you must.”  
  
“I … apologize,” Beaumont nods as he walks backwards, arms raised in his air, “to both of you. I don’t know what came over me.”  
  
“Holdo can fill you in. I suggest speaking with her at your earliest convenience.”  
  
It’s a lie. Ben has _no_ idea whether his mother’s had a chance to fill her in. Or whether they’ve even had a chance to formulate an emergency response for staff.   
  
Nor does he care, frankly.  
  
The only thing that matters is that his mate’s safe and right behind that door and…  
  
 **_*Wheeze*  
  
_ ** _What are you going on about?  
  
_ **_You admitted she’s our mate. TWICE.  
  
_ ** _*rolls eyes*  
  
_ “Thank you, Janice,” he turns to the middle aged nurse.   
  
He’s treated her unfairly before. No, that’s putting it too kindly. He’d treated her like shit. And yet here she is, having stood up to an enraged man holding her head high and keeping her promise to watch over his precious patient.   
  
She owes him nothing. Could have just thrown her hands up and said _fuckit_. What was it to her if another nurse needed access to a patient anyway?  
  
“It was nothing,” she pats his arm kindly. “You asked me to watch our patient. I take instructions seriously,” she chuckles, “now I think you’d better get in there. She’s been off lorazepam for over an hour. Dr. Hux mentioned she needed it to keep her symptoms at bay and … oh why am I explaining this to you. You’re _the_ Dr. Solo.”  
  
Ben nods as Janice retreats back towards the station. Head turning towards the steel frame door, swallowing heavily.  
  
 **_The papers.  
  
_ ** _What papers?  
  
_ **_Discharge?  
  
_ ** _Jesus, I’m losing it.  
  
_ **_That’s what I’m here for, buddy.  
  
_ ** “Janice?” he calls back towards his now _favourite_ nurse, “Would you mind processing this?” He sheepishly fumbles for the folded discharge paper he’d stuffed into the pocket of his blazer, then holds it out to her.  
  
The woman’s quick steps muffle the short distance back. She grabs the papers without a word, nods, then turns back to her duties. Ben exhales shakily, turns back to face the door.  
  
This is it. The moment of truth. The culmination of a day’s worth of anxiety, if not more. The proverbial peak. The gates to Mordor. Once he opens them he’s at the mercy of his Alpha. The mercy of _her.  
  
_ She’s unlike anyone he’s ever met. She’s gentle yet firm. She’s beautiful. The 0.01% that managed to capture his attention but _she_ has an undeniable edge of sarcasm that’s managed to arouse him well before the scents and the mutations turned him into a walking hard-on.   
  
She’s educated, smart, factual, can go toe to toe with him. She quotes movies most people dismiss as idiotic. Finds the punchline and wields it expertly to elevate conversation. She’s adorable when she pouts, infuriating when she argues, fearsome when she’s angry, and downright lovable when she melts into him. She fits him the way the puzzle pieces of her ailment have started fitting. She’s the key _made_ to fit his lock, rusted and unused as it may be.  
  
If it hadn’t been for her condition, he might have never met her. _Her._ This beautiful, weird, quirky, unlikely human cut from the same cloth.  
  
She’s his mate in every sense of the word and just beyond that door…  
  
 **_*shudders excitedly*  
  
_ ** **_You ready?_ **

  
  


# 🔬 🔬 🔬

  
  


Why does the door feel heavier than usual?  
  
Why is he practically bowled over the minute it clicks shut behind him?  
  
And that’s definitely not him moving the EKG cart against the door. Definitely.  
  
 ** _To block entry. For privacy.  
  
_** _Why do we…  
  
_ _Ohhh … here?  
  
_ ** _You proved yesterday you have no restraint. I’m simply taking all possibilities into account.  
  
_** _That’s very…  
  
_ ** _Don’t mention it. Just … nngh … get mate. S-smells so good.  
  
_** She’s sitting on the bed cross legged. A blanket clutched tightly over her abdomen where she’s folded herself in half. Like a half-lotus child’s pose hybrid (yes, he’d taken all of 2 yoga classes and decided flexibility was _not_ his thing).   
  
The air in the room is so rich, _so_ thick he feels instantly dizzy. Like getting off the plane in the Cayman Islands that one time in high school his mother decided a midsummer tropical vacation was a fantastic idea. Hot humid air hitting you so hard it’s suffocating. Making your limbs feel like immovable mush.  
  
He swallows if only to try to loosen his throat which has begun constricting. It has the unintended effect of taking in more of that sweetened floral air. Like he’s drinking the world’s best botanical cocktail and is quickly building a buzz with every gulp.  
  
Leaning against the cart he’s just used as a barricade, he fixes his eyes on her again, taking quick stock of his body.  
  
The tightness that he’d felt is starting to release. The aggression that had been simmering has begun to recede. His heart hammers against his rib cage like a battle drum and his blood has decided that for some (very strange) reason, south is the ideal direction to flow. Namely to his dick. Yeah.  
  
“Rey,” he tries hoarsely. Just like last time he finds his voice roughened by a flood of desire and sheer intoxication. Whatever her scent—  
  
 ** _It’s her pheromones. Produced by her glands. Scent glands. Mate smells good, doesn’t she?  
  
_** _Medical terminology again? Look at you!  
  
_ ** _Don’t snark me. I’m on your team.  
  
_** _I’m quaking in my skivvies Dr. Alpha.  
  
_ _Aren’t you going to remind me to bite? Or mate? Or some other caveman request?  
  
_ ** _Who did I wrong in a past life to deserve you?  
  
_** _My question_ exactly.  
  
 _Fine,_ her pheromones (does he roll his eyes? maybe) … her _pheromones_ are his own personal benzodiazepine. It both sedates him and leaves him addicted in the best of ways. Leaves him wanting _more._ With every breath, more of her essence enters his body, leaving him calm, relaxed, and drowsy.   
  
Her head snaps up. Eyes locking onto his, brows twisted in pain. Her usually clear sclera red from crying.  
  
“Ben,” she breathes a distressed grunt. It’s tiny and filled with pain. “I don’t … it hurts so much.” Her head falls back onto the blankets heaped on the bed.  
  
The pained sniffles she releases cut straight to his heart. A wave of anxiety floods his body, one that she seems to respond to by lifting her head up again quizzically.   
  
He takes a careful step forward, a rumble building in his chest. “It’s alright, Rey. I’m here to…” to what?   
  
**_Mate.  
  
_** _Now would be a good time for you to help out?  
  
_ ** _Mmm. Mate.  
  
_** _Great. You’ve devolved to your ancestral grunting self.  
  
_ ** _Mate mate mate.  
  
_** _I’m supposed to trust_ you _? This is going to be a disaster.  
  
_ “I’m here to help,” he tries again with finality. Taking a stuttered breath, he steps back and clutches the edge of the cart with a vice-like grip.   
  
He is. He _is_ here to help. Both of them. But he can’t do this alone. He needs her with him. His Alpha (whom he’s supposed to trust) has crapped out on him. Like a faulty shitbox car … like his dad’s fucking Falcon (that piece of junk). One minute it works, the next it’s stalling for no damn reason.  
  
“Rey,” it comes out broken, “I need you to help me too, help me help you. Help _me_ help you. do you think you can do that?”  
  
He hears her snort, watches her head nod against the blanket where she’s folded into herself again. Head rolling to the side to look at him with a small smile.  
  
“Did you just quote Jerry Maguire?”  
  
He smiles softly, “maybe.”  
  
She huffs another laugh. A counter-display to the pain she’s clearly suffering through right now. “Happy to entertain, huh?”  
  
“That’s what I’m here for,” he chuckles, eyes dropping down to the floor to eyeball his scuffed Jordans.   
  
When he’d taken on her case, they were new. Now? They’re smudged, the pristine white already taking on a yellowed tinge. Like a metaphor for what his life’s become. There was a methodical precision to every choice he made. Visit a website, 3 days later get new shoes. Order food, enjoy. Sleep, work, eat, repeat.   
  
Now? Not so much. Now he’s been derailed. His orderly boxes misaligned. Square pegs forced into round holes, a messy explosion of uncertainty and disorder.  
  
But … who’s to say that a little imperfection, a little _disorder_ , doesn’t make things better? Who’s to say that a scuffed shoe is worse than a brand new one? Isn’t it a sign that they’re well worn and loved? Doesn’t _he_ deserve to be well worn and loved? Doesn’t _he_ deserve to be shown a world where excitement isn’t planned?   
  
“Whatever happens,” he swallows tightly, fingers twitching to reach out and touch, “I need you to know I’m here for _you._ And … I’ve got a plan. It-it’s not bulletproof by any means but it’s something.”  
  
He watches her back lift with her breaths. Watches her fist the blanket more tightly. Watches as her smile settles into something so wholesome, so tender, it sets off a bout of arrhythmia. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but it feels important she knows that whatever they’re walking into, it’s not just this mutation. It’s not just biology. It’s _her.  
  
_ “Do you understand, Rey?”  
  
Her head rolls against the blanket again. Face burrowing into the scratchy fabric with a sniffle and a sob. Then, a nod.  
  
“Talk to me,” his voice cracks, “please?”  
  
He feels alone. _So_ alone right now. His team is unreachable. The science on what he’s experiencing is non-existent. Nothing in any of the publications he subscribes to comes even _close_ to explaining what he’s going through. The labs give him no clues. Ezra’s just reduced it to mindless fucking. His Alpha has reverted back to mumbling incoherently. She’s unresponsive.  
  
He’s scared. He’s fucking _terrified._ He doesn’t know what to do and how to act and all his body is telling him is to claim. To take. To _bite._   
  
Descending on her in a cloud of unchecked lust feels _wrong_. It feels like a forced choice thrust upon him. Like his body plans to sabotage this beautiful frail thing they’ve built.   
  
He wants her to know that he cares. Wants her to know that he _wants_ her beyond what this infection is reducing them to, or at least … him. He wants her to tell him that it’s okay. That they’ll face this together.  
  
But he can’t. She may be in the same room but she feels _so far away.  
  
_ God, he’s never felt more alone.  
  
He’s lost in open water. Tossed around in a stormy sea. Sharks circle beneath his feet moments from snapping up a limb and he’s helpless against them. He’s treading water with all his might but he can’t do this alone. He needs a lifeline. He needs a partner. He needs…  
  
“I trust you,” she squeaks, “dammit, I trust you. I do.”  
  
“You do?” It comes out incredulous. A surprised lift to his voice that sounds shockingly close to when it started breaking in early adolescence.  
  
“Yes, Ben,” she turns her head, cheek squished against the bed, “m-my voice says things but … fuck her. I trust _you.”  
  
_ Okay, he can work with that.  
  
Warily he releases his death-grip on the cart. Takes careful steps towards her while his heart tests the durability of its bony cage.   
  
“I’ve been told to trust my voice, my _Alpha_ ,” he offers as he approaches.  
  
“And my voice tells me to trust her,” she breathes in response, squeezing her eyes and inhaling deeply, “s-she wants…”  
  
He watches her breathing even as he closes the distance. Watches as she straightens her spine into an upright position. Watches her eyelids flutter open. Tension and pain appear to be wicked away.   
  
This isn’t her. She looks like a marionette on a string. Her body moved by an invisible force, not of her own volition.  
  
 ** _She’s scenting us.  
  
_** _What?  
  
_ ** _Our scent. It calms her.  
  
_** _Welcome back buddy.  
  
_ ** _I gotchu.  
  
_** When her eyes open, her pupils have swallowed up her irises. She’s in the midst of another hallucination except this time, Ben doesn’t care. In fact, he welcomes it. Or maybe that’s just his Alpha.  
  
Speaking of which…  
  
“Alpha?”  
  
That question again.   
  
**_That’s us. Do you understand now?  
  
_** Well … does he? She’s been looking for her Alpha for over a month. She’s asked plenty of people if they’re _her_ Alpha … even if her vocabulary failed her. It’s been a question. _The question._ Her _only_ question, or at the very least, her manifest’s question all this time.   
  
Another puzzle piece floats into place. The picture almost complete. They’re _not_ hallucinations, he realizes. They’ve never been.  
  
She’s been _asking._ She’s been _searching.  
  
_ _I’m her Alpha…  
  
_ ** _Yes. YES!  
  
_** “Rey,” he closes the distance. Arms wrapping instinctively around her body to cradle her close. “I’m here but I need you here with me.”  
  
He tucks her head under his chin, presses her closer like the tightness of his hold can communicate just how _much_ he’s got her. Like he’s trying to relive the soothing moment they’d shared before surgery.  
  
She tucks beneath eagerly, nose searching out the little gland at the side of his neck and breathing deeply.  
  
His hand reaches up to run a thumb over her healthy gland in return. The one that’s not covered by a gauzy bandage. Stroking and breathing, caressing and feeling. The world may go to shits outside of this room, his emotions might be a jagged, disjointed mess, but here, with her in his arms like this, everything feels right. Feels whole.  
  
He feels her back expand against his hand. Feels the heavy thump of her erratic heartbeat against his palm and a nod against the slope of his neck.   
  
The hold he’s got on her releases a fraction. Just enough for their heads to pull back and their eyes to meet. Her pupils have shrunk again to normal size. Warm breath fanning over his chin as they take stock of one another.  
  
“Tell me everything,” she murmurs, eyes glancing down towards his mouth once.  
  
 ** _We don’t have time for this. She’s going into heat.  
  
_** _We can and we will. She needs to understand what’s happening.  
  
_ ** _Ugh, FINE! But make it quick.  
  
_** Ben sighs, the hand stroking her gland coming up to push errant wisps of her hair behind her ear. “You’ll tell me if it starts to hurt, yes?”  
  
Nodding her assent, he sits himself next to her on the bed, noting how damp the sheets are to the touch. But he doesn’t let her go. No fucking way. Whether it’s this infection or not, he _likes_ having her close. _Likes_ the feel of her body next to his. The way she just _fits.  
  
_ So he pulls her in closer, tucks her under his shoulder to rest on his chest while he buries his nose into her hair again. He wonders if she can hear his heart thunder in his chest. Or if she can feel the latent heat of his body temperature. Or if she can see his straining erection which has become rather urgent.  
  
“It’s a mutation. The lab is going to run a full sequence on both our genes but we won’t get those answers for a week. What I _do_ know,” he presses a kiss to her head because he _can_ and she’s letting him, “is that whatever Kanan is … _has_ … we have it too. I … I have an Alpha. That’s what my inner voice is. An Alpha. And you have an … Omega? That’s what Ezra says.”  
  
“Ezra?”  
  
“Y-yeah,” he admits sheepishly. For the first time wondering just how much stock he should put in that man’s words.  
  
“Pffft, Ezra’s head’s always in the clouds,” she snorts, “he’s been in love with one of the rangers for _ever_.”  
  
“Sabine?”  
  
“Yeah … see? It’s so obvious even _you_ picked up on it!”  
  
“I resent that,” he squeezes her with a laugh, “either way, what I _do_ know is he apparently has this too … and so does she? I think they’re … mated? That doesn’t matter for now. The point is, whatever those inner voices are telling us to do is … uh … inevitable. It’s best for us to trust them and I believe they want us to…”  
  
“Fuck,” she finishes for him. It’s not an exclamation nor said in anger. It’s acceptance.  
  
“Y-yeah. Ummm, insistently. V-very insistent.”  
  
She snorts again. The expulsion of air somehow manages to penetrate the layers of his shirt and skitter across his skin. It sends another shock straight to his nether regions. Ben squeezes his eyes shut hoping on hope she doesn’t look down and notice. It’s difficult enough having a conversation about handing the reins of your good senses to an imaginary voice. An erection is definitely not _helping_ that conversation.  
  
“I like the way you speak words,” she laughs softly.  
  
God he loves her.   
  
“I know,” he chuckles, picking up on the reference immediately, “it doesn’t make any sense, I wish there were sense. Where did all the sense go?”  
  
 ** _*wheeze*  
  
_** ** _You just said the L word…  
  
_** _Come again?  
  
_ ** _Love. You used it.  
  
_** _I … shit FUCK. I did. *clears mental throat* so what?  
  
_ ** _Oh nothing, *smug smirk* just happy to see it’s going well.  
  
_** She’s laughing heartily, one fist gripping the placket of his shirt. He can feel her body vibrate in the safe confines of his arms.   
  
“What?”  
  
“Tribore? Really?”  
  
“You started with the Final Space quotes, sweetheart.”  
  
“I am a sick woman! If I quote cartoons those are the musings of a suffering mind” she swats his chest gently, “anything I say or do should _not_ be used against me.”  
  
“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs into her hair holding her closer.  
  
“I know,” she snuffs a laugh, “and you’re a prick.”  
  
Ben chuckles, inhaling lungfuls of that delectable scent that shoots straight to his groin. “I know.”  
  
They sit quietly. Laughter tapering off into silent breathing. Outside noises muffled by the beating of their hearts and their mingling breaths.  
  
It strikes him then. This completeness. It _almost_ starts him laughing again, the beginnings of which have started bubbling in his chest.  
  
No, wait. It’s that rumble again.  
  
Who would have thought? Mister meticulously prim … so wholly immersed in one British born wolf-lady from Alaska? Who would have thought that the little missing piece of his life would blow in (okay fly in via medivac) out of nowhere (okay San Fran) and turn his perfectly sane (okay it was empty) life on its head?  
  
“Hey Ben?”  
  
She shifts out of his arms. Tucks one knee under her thigh to turn to him fully.   
  
“My voice she … uh, oh _wow,_ someone’s excited,” her eyes, the ones that were so intently on his had done the inevitable. They’d taken a single peek down, maybe in search of courage, who knows. On their journey they landed on his very stiff problem.   
  
“Yeah,” he laughs nervously, “sorry ‘bout that. Just … ignore it.”  
  
“I don’t know,” she giggles biting her lip, “that looks … painful.”  
  
“It’s not me, I swear. It’s my Alpha he … he’s _very_ insistent I uh,” oh fuckit, “he insists I mate you.”  
  
“Oh,” her eyes drop down to her hands where she’s begun wringing a very damp looking hospital gown, “I see. You don’t …”  
  
 _Shit.  
  
_ “Rey,” his hand joins hers, palm laying gently over her small fists to stop her motion, “I want you to know it’s not like that. I like you. _Really_ like you. Probably more than a doctor should like a patient. You’re funny and witty … you _get_ me. No one usually does, not even my own mother and she _raised_ me.”  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut, attempts to find the right words to tell her … what?  
  
 ** _The truth would be a great start…  
  
_** _Oh fuck you, Freud.  
  
_ “Of course I want you,” he admits, “I just don’t want you to think it’s only because of whatever it is we’ve caught. I want you because you’re _you_ … and … I want to do whatever you’re comfortable with, _regardless_ of what my voice says.”  
  
 ** _You’re an asshole, you know that?  
  
_** _And you’re an intrusive shit, what of it?  
  
_ ** _You know I can take whatever I want…  
  
_** _Will you just … can’t you fucking see she’s hurting?  
  
_ ** _Yes! And I’m trying to fix it but you’re too stubborn to let me deal with it.  
  
_** _Give me another minute, okay? This is hard for me too.  
  
_ “Ben,” her voice pulls him out of his internal argument with Mr. Dickhead Extraordinaire, “I … I like you too. It’s scary how much I like your company. And your banter. And your dimples … aah shit. I guess what I’m trying to say is … ugh, it’s kind of embarrassing.”  
  
Ben chortles. Loudly. His hand rising to let her fists go in favour of stroking her cheek. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m sitting here pitching a fucking circus tent in pants that weren’t designed for this much pressure … I think I’ve got you beat in terms of embarrassment.”  
  
 ** _Smooth bro…  
  
_** She snickers lightly. It’s melodious. It’s beautiful, the way she’s let her guard down. The way her eyes meet his full of hope. The way she gives him a smile that feels personal. Intimate. Just for him.   
  
“My voice … my _Omega_ as you say … she’s very insistent we, uh, you know…” she bites her lip playfully, giving him the biggest doe eyes he’s ever seen, “reproduce.”  
  
It takes _everything_ in him not to pounce on her. Takes everything to hold himself still even with the throbbing problem in his pants and his Alpha demanding he peel her gown off immediately.  
  
“And you?” He manages to squeak the question out as casually as possible. But his throat is dry and his hands are fisting the blanket to the point he’s whiteknuckling it.   
  
She shrugs nonchalantly, turns her head towards the door. There’s a blush colouring her cheek and crawling up her chest. A light rosy tint that warms her golden complexion ever so slightly. It’s endearing and erotic all at once.  
  
“I suppose it could be a theory to test,” she bites her lip again, “it _could_ have its merits.”  
  
“That’s it? Just theory testing?” Ben presses his hand to his chest in outrage.  
  
She nudges him with her shoulder playfully, laughing, “don’t push it, Solo.”   
  
“Well, I have come to expect my Alpha voice to prattle about boorish mating rituals, but hearing you talk about theory testing? That _sells_ it,” he jests.  
  
“I make an excellent sales pitch, don’t I?”  
  
He can’t help laughing. And neither can she. For all the craziness swirling around them — the heady scent of _her_ drowning him, the primal urges battering against his mental defences, the irrefutable flagpole tenting his pants, the underlying pain she’s in, the churning of his emotions — laughing with each other is the easiest thing in the world.  
  
“Two peas in a pod huh?”  
  
“If we lose our jobs I bet we’d make a _killing_ selling tupperware door to door.”  
  
Hearty laughter morphs into bursts of giggles into light sighs. The weight of what’s about to happen settling on their shoulders.  
  
“We’re really doing this,” he murmurs, hand coming up to brush her cheek again.  
  
“We’re really doing this,” she parrots quietly. Eyes locked on his without a hint of trepidation.  
  
He sees her wince. A tiny lowering of her brows. An imperceptible scrunch of the nose.   
  
**_She’s in pain you stubborn mule.  
  
_** _Astute observation as always, Sherlock.  
  
_ ** _*sigh* she’s going into heat. She needs to be knotted STAT.  
  
_** _Listen. Just because you can access my medical lexicon does NOT mean you know how to use it.  
  
_ ** _Just … fucking … let me do what I’m supposed to do!  
  
_** Ben sighs. Knows he’s got minutes at best before things devolve. So he does the one thing he’s wanted to do for a long time. Since the moment she’d called him Dopey if he’s being perfectly honest.  
  
He opens his palm and cradles her head. Threads his fingers in her hair and closes the distance between them, hovering mere inches before her face.   
  
He takes a moment to commit the feeling to memory. Their first kiss. The first time he’ll get to savour her lips of his own accord. Memorize the soft dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the explosion of colour in her eyes, the unspoken trust filling the air between them.   
  
And then he descends. Closes the minuscule gap to run his lips gently over hers. A caress so tender it can’t be classified as a kiss. Until it can, because he’s increased the pressure. Pushing forward just a smidge more to test the pliancy of her lips.  
  
The sparks that fly aren’t due to the infection. They’re not related to the scent or obnoxious voice. No.  
  
They’re just Ben.  
  
They’re just Rey.  
  
Just Ben and Rey and the connection they’re forging _despite_ their condition.  
  
She kisses him back with a gentleness he didn’t know he needed. With every slide of her lips she unravels another knot in his heart. Peels back another layer of his proverbial onion skin.  
  
With every brush of her hand on its upward trajectory, she trails closer and closer to his very core. And he finds that he doesn’t really mind with her.  
  
So he lets her hands snake around his neck. Let’s her fingers thread through his hair. All while he pulls her closer by the waist and kisses her like it’s his last will and testament.  
  
When they separate for air, they’re both breathless. Eyes searching for approval and connection and finding just that.  
  
“Together,” he murmurs.  
  
“Together,” she nods, smiling.  
  
They connect again, this time more urgently. Lips part and tongues slip into warm mouths. Teeth get in the way but that’s alright because they learn. One mistake segues into a shift so right it strokes the flames they’re building anew.  
  
When they inevitably gasp for air again, her pupils have swallowed her irises whole. She’s looking at him the way she’d done that first time, with unchecked lust and need.  
  
Except this time…  
  
“Alpha.”  
  
There’s a tug in his chest. A warm sort of glow that’s taken root and begun to bloom. A zinging at the base of his skull.  
  
The last piece of the puzzle floats into place, sliding neatly to lock against its neighbours and complete the picture.  
  
The second skin has settled on his shoulders, a warm, comforting presence that’s always been there. It’s there like his father's hand when he’d fallen learning how to ride his bike. Soothing and encouraging.  
  
 ** _Now you understand.  
  
_** Ben swallows the knot in his throat. Let’s the second skin envelope him.  
  
With his last conscious thought, he whispers, “Omega.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Things go a bit hazy for Ben from there. The second skin’s wrapped tightly around him. The edges of his vision are blurry and soft, like a glamour filter at an 80s photography studio.   
  
Colours are more vibrant, sensations heightened, scents zing his olfactory system and flavours explode in a symphony on his tongue. Sensations blend and blur, his senses mingle to taste colour and smell sounds. An interfusion of the senses. Synesthesia without the use of hallucinogens.   
  
He remembers tongues caressing in long languid slides.  
  
He remembers the soft pleading mewls of the most perfect woman in the universe.  
  
He remembers the feeling of completeness the moment their bodies fuse.  
  
He remembers murmuring endearments in her ear. _Good girl_ and _my Omega.  
  
_ He remembers kissing her again and again.  
  
He remembers the toe curling sensation of a strange new swelling. Remembers the way they both moaned as they reached ecstasy.  
  
He remembers warm skin against his lips and the coppery tang of blood on his tongue. The earth shattering epiphany of merging with another soul. The way he can feel her emotions, her happiness and satisfaction in his chest, his head, his _veins.  
  
_ He remembers bliss like no other.  
  
He remembers a sharp sting on his own trapezius.  
  
He remembers the harmony of stars aligning, and waves crashing, and mountains crumbling because the world has found a new order in this beautiful, messy new oneness of _them_. A tiny thing born between two beings has taken root and exploded in a burst of glittering lights. A whole new universe coming into being between them.  
  
He remembers falling in love, however improbable.  
  
He remembers finding his mate.  
  
 _His_ Omega.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are…
> 
> You’ve just read a completely smutless A/B/O and are wondering wtf just happened, right? 
> 
> Well, I’m here to give you insights into exactly what the hamster in my head was doing.
> 
> When I set out to write this I wanted 2 things — to explore A/B/O plausibility on the medical front (spoiler alert, it’s not without bending the laws of ... like everything), and to blow up every common trope. I also wanted to (minor goal) write an A/B/O that didn’t feature porn but focused on the confusion of presentation in a world where none of it fits but suddenly has to. Did I succeed? Beats me. But we’re left with a witty Alpha and an unconventional Omega finding each other despite all odds. We’re left with consent and a mutual mating bite.
> 
> So what happens next? 
> 
> Well, for starters, there’s gonna be a sequel. I’m _not_ a fan of changing ratings mid story. Think it’s unfair to someone who hadn’t signed up for the smut to suddenly be confronted with it after investing themselves in the story. So now that we’ve wrapped up the story of Patient Zero with a pretty bow (and an open-ish ending) we’re going to shift to an E rating for part 2. Because the more I wrote them, the more I realized they _deserve_ to bone. 
> 
> If you don’t want to read it, you don’t need to. I doubt there’ll be much plot progression in the world they live in. It’ll most likely just be porn with feelings. Featuring more of Ben’s Alpha (who will be named in Chapter 1) and more banter between our two witty little shits because I’ve got a doc full of scenes that _need_ to happen. In Anchorage. Cause yeah.
> 
> **UPDATE: Part 2 is now up.[Alpha & Omega: New Mating and Coupling Dynamics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478435/chapters/67186048)**
> 
> **One last set of clarifications:**   
>  [Benzodiazepine (aka sedative/tranquilizer)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benzodiazepine)   
>  [Synesthesia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synesthesia)


End file.
